


Wonderstruck

by Mizzy, snoopypez



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anxiety, Fantasizing, Film Adaptation, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, M/M, Minor Margo Hanson/Alice Quinn, Minor William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz/Julia Wicker, Romance, Romantic Comedy, Single Dad Quentin Coldwater, True Love's Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:14:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 99,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26218471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mizzy/pseuds/Mizzy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez/pseuds/snoopypez
Summary: Eliot Waugh is content to let his life continue as it is. He gets to spend every day with his best friend Margo, he's waited on hand and foot, and he gets to help rule the fantastical country of Fillory. What even could be missing from all that? Margo thinks what's missing from her own life is romance. Eliot's happy to be her wingman on that front, but when he tries to assist Margo on her quest for True Love, someone with sinister intentions intervenes, and Eliot finds himself magically transported to a much less fantastical place: New York City.Nothing interesting has ever really happened to Quentin Coldwater. He works with his best friends. He's a single dad to a great kid, his son Teddy. His girlfriend Alice is pretty and smart, and, okay, their relationship isn't going too well, but that's entirely on Quentin. Quentin's just too nervous to introduce her to his friends, because of what happens when people love him: they leave.When Quentin and Eliot's paths collide, can Quentin help Eliot find his way home?[Enchanted adaptation for 2020's Magicians Happy Ever After event!]
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 167
Kudos: 160
Collections: Magicians Happy Ever After





	1. Eliot

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, Mizzy (the author) here, with some thank yous!!  
> Thank you to [Rubick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rubick) and [Rizandace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rizandace) for being amazing betas, I absolutely couldn't have done this without you!!  
> Thank you to my beautiful artist [snoopypez](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snoopypez) for making this collaboration so much fun! This was really a two-way street and I think we had a lot of fun putting this together, and I think that shows in the end result. <3  
> Thanks to Team Whitespire on P&P, you're all the best supportive champs and I appreciate you so much.  
> And thanks to the mods (and esp OfTheDirewolves for their particular help with this fic! <3) for running such a fun event. MHHE last year got me through some ish, and I was so grateful to get the chance to participate this year, and to get to contribute to such a passionate and amazing community.

Eliot Waugh would tell you that his part of this story doesn't begin with _once upon a time_ as it's more of a _happening right now_ kind of thing _._ And if the tale doesn't start with _once upon a time,_ it can't count as a fairy tale.

The only fairy tale aspect is the whole magical kingdom part of it (that probably counts) and the fact that they're discussing _True Love_ like it's an actually possible thing.

But it's not a fairy tale.

Even if before the end there _is_ a dragon involved.

* * *

Some of the Spear-Bearers that Queen Agate has sent to try and woo Margo are… blowing Eliot's mind.

Nothing else, Eliot thinks, as he watches their antics. His mind is the only thing that the Floating Island Spear-Bearers will be blowing any time soon. Eliot's dick doesn't have many standards in Fillory, but that is a line he is pretty damn firm on: Margo has dibs right now. Eliot sighs at his own value-system, because some of those Spear-Bearers do have banging bods.

Then again, his sex life has been somewhat...blurry recently. One orgasm blends into another these days. Eliot blanches internally. Is he getting old? What a terrible thought.

"Gillen," Eliot says slowly, because he's not entirely sure he isn't making this up; Fillory has that effect on people sometimes. "What do you think they're doing?"

Their burly bearded man-at-arms shrugs his broad shoulders, a clear _I know as much as you do_ gesture. Eliot tracks the motion appreciatively. Gillen had politely declined Eliot's invitation to be a bedmate years ago, but he does still respond positively to Eliot's appreciation. (Eliot makes sure to appreciate him often, in return for Gillen's years of abiding loyalty to the throne.)

"Maybe it's a weird island religious thing," Gillen offers, as he and Eliot stare down at the spear bearers, baffled. There are eight of them sitting silently in the water, five feet apart, holding their spears. Staring blankly into space as the water bubbles around them. "Maybe if they don't take their spears into the hot springs with them, it's an insult to Ember and Umber?"

Eliot finds comfort in Gillen's obvious confusion. If a Ramsian ritual is strange even to a native Fillorian, it's probably okay for him to be baffled by it too.

"Maybe they just really like polishing their rods," Eliot says.

Gillen chuckles. "Perhaps we'd better get back to the High King, sire. She's expecting our report."

"She's expecting _your_ report," Eliot sighs.

Gillen's eyes slide back to him; he'd gotten distracted by the Spear-Bearers again. "Pardon me, sire, I didn't quite catch that?"

"I _said,_ " Eliot lies, and then catches a flash of movement, "is that Prince Fomar?"

Gillen blinks, obviously expecting Eliot to lie, but not expecting that lie; he swivels on his heel and peers into the trees that frame the Castle's outside hot springs.

Eliot had been meaning to say something else, until he caught sight of the Floating Island's bratty little heir-to-be hiding behind the trees. And his question might have been too loud—now several of the bathing Spear-Bearers eyeball Eliot warily, as if only just realizing the King of Fillory is standing there while they bathe.

Eliot eyes them judgmentally in return. They're the idiots standing in the bubbling hot water, in what is technically a public space, naked and clutching their spears (not a metaphor!) They have no right to judge him. It's not like Eliot doesn't already have the reputation of being a slightly-slutty King anyway.

"I think you're right," Gillen says. "Definitely Prince Fomar. Do you think his mother knows he's perving on his guards while they bathe?"

Eliot smirks. "I'm disappointed to find a shared hobby with the little brat, to be honest."

"Maybe we should get out," one of the Spear-Bearers whispers.

"Let's go, Gillen," Eliot says.

Gillen frowns but nods his head, moving them away from the hot springs and back on the path up to the Castle.

Eliot is quiet as he walks alongside him. As usual, Gillen had done all the work on their scheduled trek into Brighthaven, leaving Eliot to do his usual thing: stand there, looking authoritative and pretty.

Eliot appreciates that he's very ornamental, but it does sting to never feel useful. Still, it keeps him with Margo, so how can he really complain?

As he silently keeps pace with Gillen, Eliot's thoughts trail to his best friend in the multiverse and her current crusade to find a True Love.

Eliot's sure of only one thing:

If true love really does exist anywhere in the multiverse, Eliot Waugh would _not_ pick Fillory as the place to find it.

* * *

The poor gaggle of potential suitors loitering in the west hallway serve to underline Eliot's theory that Margo's quest for True Love is a dodgy one. None of them at first glance seem good enough for Margo in the slightest.

Eliot inclines his head at the castle guards as he and Gillen sweep past. He doesn't even bother hiding the fact he's checking out the ass of every guy he passes. Even if like Gillen they aren't inclined in Eliot's favorite direction, Eliot is sure of one thing: Margo deserves a True Love with the pertest ass Fillory has to offer.

The whole continent seemed to spring to life as soon as Margo had made her declaration that she was going to host a week of revels to find someone to marry. Margo's logic on the matter is flawless—if Prince Charming could have three royal balls (yes, both Margo and Eliot snickered, copiously), Margo can have way more, she's a _High King._ This is merely the first of a whole series of events, designed for Margo to wine and dine and flirt her way through as many potential suitors as possible.

Eliot can't see the allure beyond the practical part: there's a co-operative spell that Margo rooted out the dank depths of Castle Whitespire's library which could heal anyone from anything. Unfortunately the catch is that it requires the victim to be kissed by their True Love. Which Eliot had taken as some typical Fillorian bullshit hyperbole, but Margo had latched onto it with stubborn ferocity.

Probably _because_ Eliot had pooh-poohed it as ridiculous as soon as he heard it.

He understands some of her nerves. Despite the fact that Margo has been on the throne of Fillory for over ten years now, there are still threats to be wary about. The FU fighters are a constant worry; numerous small nations regularly try their luck against Fillory's duo of magician kings; and two summers ago, Eliot had eaten something disagreeable at lunch that nearly killed him. Margo _still_ suspects someone had tried to poison her (Eliot had a bad habit of thinking everything on Margo's plate belonged to him.) Eliot personally doubts it, because anyone who really wanted Margo to die via poison would put it in her coconut oil; there are plenty of poisons endemic to Fillory that absorb especially potently through the scalp, and assassins here seemed to really enjoy making attempts in bathrooms.

Eliot can't blame them. The assassins are usually attempting to replace their victims, and cleanup is always easiest in a tiled bathroom. The rest of the castle is decorated in elaborate tapestries and embroidered soft furnishings, which tended to be more... absorbent, to say the least.

Still, ever since Eliot had almost embarrassingly died because of a dodgy slice of game pie, Margo had been on edge. Eliot had reluctantly done the reading; the spell Margo had found was almost frighteningly legitimate. If True Love did exist, the odds had to be astronomical of finding them, or everyone would have one. If anyone in the universe can defy those odds, it's Margo Freaking Hanson.

When Margo had been voted High King in a landslide, Eliot had inquired about becoming her High Queen. Alas, although Fillory was progressive enough to accept a female High King, they were unfortunately sticklers to other laws that denied Eliot becoming her Queen. That's the problem with Fillory: too many contradictions for Eliot's calm.

Eliot politely grimaces his way past some more of the Floating Island delegates—to his own chagrin he automatically checks out those butts too (nice, if a little pedestrian)—before sweeping into the throne room.

He almost immediately regrets it.

"King Eliot!" Fen yells. Then belatedly, less noisily: "Master Gillen!"

Eliot plasters on a grin as Margo's knife-master scrambles down towards him from the dais where Fen seems to have been enthusiastically showing Margo one of her blades. Fen's...fine. Enthusiastic. She's too painfully earnest for Eliot most of the time. Fen wouldn't know how to suppress her emotions if her life depended on it. For someone who holds the Olympic world record in emotional denial, Eliot finds her hard to take in large quantities.

"Knife Master Fen." Eliot inclines his head.

Fen stumbles to a stop, one knife still outstretched. Eliot stares at how close the point is to him and she grimaces. Embarrassed heat rises in her cheeks as she shoves her knives in the ever-present criss-cross belts she wears over a leather doublet and tight leather pants. Eliot doesn't have to check Fen's ass out to know it's worth _some_ aesthetical appreciation; Margo does it enough for both of them.

"Your Majesty," Fen curtsies awkwardly. If Eliot didn't have an excellent memory and could recall how efficiently Fen had taken out every single opponent at the tournament Margo threw to find her, he'd fall for her bumbling act too. Fen's clumsiness does not extend to lethal or violent situations. Eliot doesn't know if she is clumsy, or incredibly committed to being underestimated. She beams at Eliot. At first, her crush on him had been adorable. Now, it just makes Eliot… tired.

"Can I help you with something?"

"It's something that came up when I was giving High King Margo my daily report. Some of the suitors from the Brass City have set up camp in Wormwood, disturbing some of the dryads, so we've relocated them to the northern part of the Southern Orchard. There's been no other major problems." Fen tilts her head, her gaze on him intent. She's staring directly at his face, which gives Eliot the creeping sensation that this isn't a personal matter. "But I did ask the High King for permission to talk to you about something."

Behind Fen, Margo grins widely, enjoying Eliot's obvious discomfort.

"You did? How pleasant."

Fen beams. If she's aware of his sarcasm, she never shows it. "I was wondering if you wanted to schedule some knife training with me. And the other Centurions." She might miss his sarcasm, but Eliot's spent years dodging her personal invitations to go for a walk or a picnic or a 'weekend quest' to the Bores. She hasn't missed his aversion to spending one-on-one time with her, but it hasn't seemed to put her off _trying._ Eliot almost finds it charming, but he'd never tell Fen that, she might get the wrong idea. Belatedly, she tags on, "Master Gillen, you too, of course."

"Of course," Gillen says, his smile looking forced. Technically the Centurions are under his command, but Gillen doesn't confront Fen directly when she oversteps her bounds with his people. His revenge is always much more subtle. Eliot tries his best to feel sorry for Fen in advance.

"Ah, right," Eliot begins, ready to say no as politely as he can. As much as she's _too much_ sometimes, he endeavors to be polite. It's always a good idea when the person involved could stab you to death as easily as breathing. Eliot supposes he should be relieved she likes him. He doesn't envy any of her enemies. He doesn't have to. They're all dead or in the dungeons.

"It's been a while since the last time," Fen interrupts, in a flint-hard voice, and maybe—just maybe—she might be starting to get a clue about how futile her efforts are to charm him, "and as I confirmed with High King Margo, as part of my role in castle security, I need to make sure _all_ who serve under her are capable of defending her."

Margo's shit-eating grin widens.

"Especially with the increase of traffic in the castle and surrounding areas," Fen continues. She smiles too, an eerie echo of Margo's. _Shit_ , Eliot thinks. He's always worried there would be a day when Fen would stop being charmed by his existence and start treating him like she treated everyone else at the castle: as pawns in her scheme to ruthlessly keep Margo alive at all costs. Is today that day? Or has it been overshadowed by her devotion to Margo?

He can't blame Fen for wanting to keep Margo safe. Eliot would spend his every waking second devoted to it, if Margo wouldn't kick his ass for being a presumptuous dick. For some reason, Margo lets Fen get away with it. It's either Fen's relentless earnestness or her superb skill with sharp objects.

Gods, it's probably just Eliot's fate in life to be surrounded by terrifyingly competent women.

"I'll try and find some time in my schedule," Eliot says, through gritted teeth. Fen opens her mouth to argue and Eliot leans in. "There is something you could do for me first, though, while I do that," he says, in a dramatically conspiratorial tone.

Fen's eyes widen and her cheeks go a deeper shade of crimson: her crush on Eliot isn't gone. He still has time before his life becomes a rigorous schedule of knife training and castle defense procedures and magical exercises. It'll be like the Château all over again; whomever thought Brakebills had a tough study routine had never been to an actually decent magic school.

Eliot's not keen to go back to that sort of routine. Even for Margo.

"Sire," Fen says, breathily. "Just say the word."

"Master Gillen and I have discovered that Prince Fomar of the Floating Island delegation has been lurking around outside the castle again. We last saw him loitering around the hot springs." Eliot keeps his voice at a whisper, not because he wants to hide the conversation from Margo, more because it winds her up when she can’t listen in. "You know how uncomfortable he makes the High King. If you could… gently relocate him from the grounds, I'd be… _appreciative._ "

Off to one side, Gillen's shoulders are shaking at Eliot's blatant subterfuge, nearly ruining everything.

"Of course!" Fen straightens up and yanks out two of her knives swiftly, one for each hand. "I'll get right on it, King Eliot."

"Thank you, Fen," he calls as she skids off to the doors, so excited to be given a rare order from Eliot that she forgets to say goodbye to Margo.

"She's like a human puppy," Margo says, watching Eliot as he approaches the throne. Eliot smiles up at her, struck all over again by how much being High King of Fillory suits her. He lets his eyes linger on her as he deviates to the side table to pick up his wineskin.

Margo is like a real living and breathing Renaissance painting. Eliot's always thought so, but there's something about Fillory that lets everyone see it. The throne frames her, the lighting in the Whitespire throne room casting her beautiful face into a glorious spectrum of light and shadow. She's wearing a gold dress that flows around her like a shimmering waterfall, with a slit in the perfect place, letting her show off her perfect legs. Her hair is up in an elaborate style, curling tendrils framing her face. One of her shoulders is bare. Jewels glint around her throat, wrist, and on her shoes; the sunlight catches just-so on her crown, almost giving her a halo. Margo Hanson is not an angel. Heaven forbid the fool who ever makes that mistake. She is High King Margo the Spectacular. Eliot swigs at his wine as he ascends the dais to his own throne. _Long may she reign_.

Eliot lowers himself into his throne and crosses his legs, mirroring Margo's position. He likes the idea of anyone coming into the room seeing them like they're a matching pair of badass bookends.

"Gillen," Margo greets, as the man approaches the thrones and inclines a short bow. "How goes things in Brighthaven?"

Gillen gives the report without even having to glance at Eliot for confirmation of the details. Revenue in the taverns is up. The Royal Hotel that Eliot and Margo had sponsored five years ago is nearly full. There's an overambitious bear trying to rent out stable space, which Gillen has tentatively allowed, in return for a suitable percentage of income to come to the crown. Eliot keeps his smile fixed on his face as Gillen talks, trying desperately not to feel entirely useless.

It's worth it, Eliot repeats to himself sternly. The boredom is worth it, to stay by Margo's side and see her smile.

Margo dismisses Gillen when he's done. Eliot watches him leave and brings up his wineskin to take a swig, only for it to be yanked out of his hands.

Eliot glares at Margo and she glares back at him like she's expecting him to protest. He doesn't.

"This stuff is total swill," Margo sighs, pulling a face at the wineskin as she lowers it from her mouth.

"And still the best Fillory has to offer," Eliot sighs, taking the wineskin back and swigging at it, even though there's a fresh line of Margo's lipstick around the mouth. He licks his own lip as he lowers the skin; Fillory's alcohol might be lacking, but its cosmetics are strangely delicious.

"That would be why the West Lorians are providing drinks in return for their rooms in the Royal."

"Lorian Mead. Really?"

Margo shrugs her bare shoulder. "At least if no one interesting shows up, I can entertain myself by watching Tick get trashed on it again."

" _I'll_ be at every single ball and I happen to think I count as interesting."

"I thought you'd be here sooner." Margo tilts her head. "Any trouble in the city that I have to worry about?"

Eliot shakes his head. "Gillen and I got distracted at the springs." At Margo's continued stare, he explains. "The Spear-Bearers were being weird again."

Margo looks at him with a knowing expression. She's known Eliot for a frightening number of years now that he doesn't want to attach to an actual number, because he already had to accept reaching an age that started with a three. Soon enough, there'll be a _four_ before it, and all he'll have to show for it is a crown for the weirdest country in the existence of _everything._

And Margo, of course. She's always been proof enough that his life hasn't been a giant sucking waste of time.

Margo taps her long fingernails against the arm of his throne. "I'm _sure_ the delegates that Lady Agate Grey sent with her son wouldn't _dare_ cause a problem. Not if she still thinks I might bed one of them."

"There isn't anything to worry about," Eliot tries, but Margo doesn't look convinced. She uncrosses her legs and leans forward in the throne at an angle so she can glare at him. He sighs. "They've been perfectly amenable. It's just..."

" _El._ "

It isn't fair that Margo can pack such levels of threat and intensity into a single syllable.

"Normally," Eliot says, trying to figure out how to phrase it so he doesn't sound like a pathetic coward, " _normally_ I'm the first person in a queue to cheer on some good phallic imagery, but I have to admit, those spear-bearers from the Floating Island aren't….a particular favorite of mine, right now." Margo's eyebrows twitch. Eliot tries not to sigh. He knows he's not explaining himself well. The Spear-Bearers...make him uneasy. The sharp gleaming points of the spears remind him that Margo _could_ be hurt. The idea of that happening is uncomfortable.

"Wanna talk to Mama about it?" Margo's voice is warm with amusement. Eliot's glad. It means his panic over her safety isn't too painfully obvious.

"It's the whole spear-bearing thing," Eliot complains. "Can't they put them down for even a minute? Gillen and I saw a whole crowd of them carrying their spears _into the hot springs_. Didn't put them down once, carried them into the hot water with them. _Ridiculous._ "

"Aw, baby, are they making you uncomfortable?" Margo waggles her perfect eyebrows and then her eyes soften, all business again. "I suppose I'm not the biggest fan," she admits. "That's why I double-checked with Fen that all the guards are ready to cope if they turn prickly. My magic's more than enough to protect me, but I don't want any of our people getting punctured by them if this goes tits up."

"And that's why she wanted me to train with her." Eliot sighs. Of course Margo's fears have been aligning with his own. "Fine. I'll try and track Fen down later and find some time in my schedule to do some drills." He narrows his eyes. "But not one-on-one with her."

Margo grins. "Good boy."

Eliot rolls his eyes but she darts in and kisses his forehead and it's hard to be mad at her when she does that. "I said _try,_ " he says, aware he sounds petulant, but also aware that Margo knows he'll do it.

"And in the meantime," Margo straightens out her skirts, "try not to be too jumpy and start something yourself. I'm pretty sure we could take those floating bastards with a handful of our magic, but one of those bad boys could be my True Love."

Eliot makes a performative gagging noise.

Margo's eyes soften. "You wouldn't be so keen on dismissing it if you didn't believe in it." She leans closer to cup his face in her one soft, capable hand. "You must have, once upon a time, to be this aggrieved whenever someone even _hints_ at it."

"Once upon a time," Eliot scoffs as she releases him. He leans his head against the back of his throne and stares up at the elaborate criss-cross of roof beams. The castle towers rotate thanks to the intricate clockwork of the dwarves, but the ceiling remains stationary even as the walls turn, rendering it an unusual but reliable timepiece. It's curved-beam-over-the-pegasus-tapestry-o'clock in Castle Whitespire. Another two hours until dinner. "Yeah, maybe," he admits, easier when he isn't looking Margo directly in the face.

Because she's kinder to Eliot than he deserves, she doesn't prod this new, soft, vulnerable admission. Instead she starts running through some of the things Eliot had missed in Fen's briefing. It isn't much. Mostly boring traffic and resourcing issues. So many Hollywood movies romanticize the royal life, but Eliot has discovered that it’s like being a very fancily-compensated administrator. He pays as much attention to Margo's rich voice as he can, but his attention span is a joke.

By the time Margo starts covering some of the catering issues for the royal balls—one of their most tragic early discoveries had been that there are no good chefs in the entirety of Fillory; Eliot secretly cooks he and Margo supper after the scullery maids have gone to bed—Eliot realizes where his brain is still stuck: on the True Love part of this whole damn rigmarole.

"Do you actually believe they exist?" Eliot asks, cutting through Margo's regularly-scheduled whine about how the opium in the air somehow interacts with yeast, ruining all Fillorian attempts at bread-like substances and turning them into something close to a hockey puck in both texture and taste.

Margo speaks fluent Eliot, so she knows he isn't actually talking about decent Fillorian baking. "My _True Love_?" Margo makes a scoffing noise. "Probably not."

" _Bambi._ "

Margo giggles, a low throaty sound, and flings a mischievous look at him. "I've given flimsier reasons for a party before. Worst case scenario, we have a good time. Best case..." She shrugs her thin shoulders. "I get ultimate protection from whatever else in this freakazoid country wants to try and shank me next."

"And someone probably willing to eat you out as often as you want."

Margo rolls her eyes. "I've _never_ suffered a lack of willing volunteers for that."

Eliot considers for a moment but has to concede the truth of it. Even in their limited Brakebills days, from the moment she looked Eliot in the eye and decided _yes this one is mine I think I'll keep him_ , Margo had been a true commander of people. Her gaining a throne in Fillory had felt like a delayed administrative cockup had been amended, the universe finally realizing what Margo was worth and rewarding her accordingly.

"Well. We'll see how it goes, I'm sure," Eliot concedes. "There are a lot of hot guys in the castle. At least I won't be without _some_ fun for the next few nights."

"I'll be relying on your earnest feedback. Let me know which ones have the best stamina."

"When have I ever let you down?" Eliot squints at her. "I mean, on this matter."

Instead of laughing, though, Margo takes his hand and looks him in the eyes. Oh. It's _serious_ Bambi time. Eliot shuffles his weight on his butt awkwardly, glad again that nature has graced him enough in that department. (Fillorian thrones had not been designed with comfort in mind.) "Maybe one of the suitors coming here might catch your eye for more than a night's tumble. There's going to be a _lot_ of hot men here over the next few weeks. It doesn't have to be True Love for you to have a...protracted good time."

Eliot makes a noncommittal noise and can't look her in the eyes. "That sounds a lot like dating."

"You deserve nice things, El." Margo's thumb brushes the back of his hand and he reluctantly meets her gaze again. "No matter what you think."

"Is it worth trying if I don't even know if _love_ really exists, let alone... _true?_ " Eliot shakes his head. "Maybe I believed it did. Once upon another lifetime ago. But I was a whole entirely different person then." Margo knows that. Better than most. He's a Phoenix, born out of some terrible ashes. He won't go back. He _can't._

"And the delightful person you are _now_ deserves love." Margo's voice is relentlessly soft, impossibly kind. "Of all kinds. Maybe it won't be _True,_ whatever the fuck that means. _But,_ on the other hand, True Love is written down in a spell, so _Fillory_ thinks it exists, and we've come across everything else written down in that damn library—"

They both look at each other and shudder in unison. Eliot still finds stains around various parts of the castle's walls from the summer the Prince of the Mud tried to stage a one-giant-turtle coup against them. Thankfully the answer to defeating him had lain in the library scrolls or they'd probably still be waist-deep in His Stinky Highness' shit.

"As usual, Bambi's logic is impeccable," Eliot sighs.

"Promise me something, El." Margo still has hold of his hand, so Eliot feels unable to do anything but continue looking her in the eyes, wide and vulnerable. She could ask him anything and he'd do it. She knows that. "If someone here _does_ catch your attention for more one night, promise me if there's potential that you'll think about opening up to it. Just think. That's all I'm asking. Instead of shutting down immediately."

Eliot's eyes sting. He probably owes her a warm and affirmative serious response, but instead he nods, agreeing to it. Opening up to the potential. Huh. What a thought. Well, at least she didn't outright make him vow to date the very next person who asked, or something like that.

Margo beams, satisfied. She's everything important in Eliot's life, the only reason Eliot stays in Fillory even on a good day. He owes her everything. A little promise to do something as brave as _maybe_ considering dating someone, instead of running a mile at the faintest implication, is probably nothing. Besides, the men turning up to the royal balls want to woo Margo, so they shouldn't pose much of a risk to Eliot.

"Let me know if a high-strung nerd turns up in your pile of suitors," he says, because the topic's been much too serious for him not to resort to humorous deflection. "You know how much I like those."

Margo drops his hand. " _Please,_ I have first dibs if there is one. You know how much _I_ like them."

Eliot narrows his eyes. "First come first served?"

"Deal," Margo fist bumps him.

"So what's next on the agenda?"

"I have three hours of pampering scheduled." She smiles. "Gotta get me all nice and ready for a week solid of partying. What’s next on yours?"

"Tick wants me to go through the castle reserves for this upcoming winter." Eliot purses his lips. "I guess I should track down Fen to schedule that training, too."

"You don't need to be worried, babe." Margo gets to her feet, smiling when Eliot instantly rises and offers his arm. "It's all going to be fine. The Floating Island stands to gain more from wooing me than stabbing me. Fillory _loves_ me. They'd riot against anyone taking this throne by force."

That much is true. Margo has the talking animals of Fillory a thousand percent behind her. They adore her. And all because she was once so bored waiting for Eliot to finish his hook up (the guy had _actual horns and was horny for Eliot, how was he supposed to pass up that opportunity for a fuck?_ ) that she spent three hours doing peach schnapps shots with a talking bear. Fillory. The whole place was a mindfuck.

"I'm not worried," Eliot lies. Margo's expression is deeply skeptical, but she doesn't say anything. Maybe it's because her team of maids have slipped in the room and are watching them. Or maybe it's because after so many years words aren't necessary anymore. "If you see Tick tell him I'm… on my way."

Margo stares at Eliot. "If I see Tick, considering where I'm going, I'll stab him somewhere soft. Spying on the High King in her bath, _he_ ought to be so lucky." She waggles her eyebrows. "Come join me if you get done early, though. Mama always appreciates a foot rub."

"Then _Mama_ will get one," Eliot promises, kissing her on the cheek and letting her join her swarm of maids. He watches her leave, a sweep of gold among the gaggle of girls Margo keeps on staff to serve her every whim. Eliot's sure she's slept with at least half of them: god bless Margo Hanson.

Eliot takes a second to breathe in the empty throne room, enjoying the silence of the cavernous space. It doesn't quite feel like home, even now. The throne room has always felt like a decadent set, for he and Margo to play out their royal fantasies. He only feels like he belongs when Margo's at his side. Now that she has gone, it's back to feeling like an artificial stage, and he's an actor in a costume he'll have to return at the end of the day. He knows Fillory is real – there isn't a mind on Earth insane enough to make up most of the weird shit that happens here – but his part in it sometimes feels _so_ unreal, it's hard to believe he belongs here.

Eliot inhales. And exhales. Margo's here. He belongs anywhere she is. If anyone wants to accuse him of codependency, well, they'd probably be right. But screw them. Eliot has a throne and his best friend. He'd be an idiot for wanting anything more than that.

Young Eliot would have wanted more than that. Young Eliot pined for that, once upon a time. Someone who would get him. Someone who could bring him to life. Someone who he couldn't wait to see every day. Eliot loves Margo a lot, but even though she's probably his platonic soulmate, they still need a break from each other every now and again. In some ways, they're _too_ alike. But that young Eliot died a long time ago, in a farm, in Indiana, when he learned parental love was conditional, and that world didn't have much room for a kid with a big heart and even bigger dreams.

Eliot sighs. He can't linger, this is the first place Tick would come to look for him.

He knows the best place to find Fen at this time of day is probably the courtyard. The fastest way to that is back through the vestibule, but the idea of going past all those bristling spears is too unnerving, so he starts making his way out to the back of the castle so he can walk the perimeter and go in via the east archway.

He could handle the spearmen. Probably. If he had to. Eliot's battle magic is good, better than it ever was, but he's never had to use it against more than a handful of opponents, and he's not keen to have to start now. Eliot had wanted to add a ' _leave your weapons at home_ ' clause to the party invitations, but Tick insisted that such a request would cause a diplomatic incident. Eliot's fairly sure that him having to blast the fuck out of any of the attendants will be _more_ of a diplomatic incident, but he’d been overruled. He only very occasionally regrets surrendering his status as High King in favor of a democratically-elected monarch.

The Spear-Bearers of the Floating Island are a formidable force, though. Margo and he discussed Lady Agate Grey's offer earnestly when she made it: the four thousand spearmen to fold into their army made an attractive offer. And Margo was pretty fond of Prince Micah too; Eliot had caught her digging her fingernails into her arm and drawing blood in an attempt to stop her tears in public when they learned of Micah's unfortunate death in a hunting accident. Lady Grey sent Micah's son Fomar in his place, but he was half Margo's age, and a sniveling brat to boot. Still, Fomar keeps trying his best to get Margo's attention. Eliot might have been impressed if he wasn't so creeped out by the boy.

Without Micah in the equation, Margo's decision was easy: she and Eliot knew battle magic, and the Fillorian knowledge repository had added even more spells to their arsenal than even Château de Peyrelade had. Together, they were more than powerful enough to _not_ need the manpower.

Lady Grey accepted their decline, but did respond eagerly to Margo's invitations—too eagerly. Which is why Fomar is back and sniveling around the castle, and why they currently have a hundred Spear-Bearers clogging up the vestibules and being unnaturally attached to those damn spears. Apparently the Stone Queen's idea is to play the odds and hope one of her men manages to grab the hallowed position of Margo's True Love.

It's easier to breathe outside the castle, Eliot thinks, as he lets himself out of the side-door. He doesn't come this way often. He probably should. Fillory is beautiful and the opium in the air really is an _incredibly_ unfair way to make you like a place. Eliot thought he and Margo would grow accustomed to it, but something in Fillory's magic means it stays fresh, ready to get you addicted to it every brand new day.

He's dawdling down the path, but he doesn't know who would blame him for it but Tick, who thinks the royals should move with the same exact clockwork as the castle. It's a beautiful day to walk alone in the woods.

"King Eliot!"

Eliot freezes. Alone seems to be the wrong assessment. Eliot shouldn't be surprised by that, it's _Fillory_ —Eliot had once leaned against a tree for a clandestine smoke, and the trunk had opened up and asked him if he had one spare. He turns around cautiously to see an old woman peer out of the trees. She has long gray hair swept up into a scarf and is wearing a loose smock made of the brown smooth-woven cloth favored by Fillorian housewives. She looks harmless enough, Eliot supposes. He affects a fake smile at her, turning the charm on automatically. Margo's throne was technically up for re-election in another few years' time. It didn't hurt to keep people onside.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry to trouble you, sire, only—I've been here so long—and I'm an old, feeble woman—" The woman wrings her hands and stares up at him with large watering eyes. "I think it's stuck."

Eliot frowns, and edges closer. He can handle one person with his magic, worse comes to worse.

"What's stuck?"

"It sounds like a small animal, sire." Her fuzzy brows furrow deeply. "I've been praying to the Gods it's not a child, but you know how their cries can sound alike?"

An animal or a child trapped. Eliot pushes his mouth into a line. Fen would tell him he should get a guard, but that means hurrying away. No. He can solve this. People in Fillory rarely think he can. There isn't a single task that he's allowed to manage on his own.

"Show me," Eliot says. If anything goes wrong, he is a motherfucking _magician._

* * *

Eliot expects to be taken somewhere close, but she hurries through the Fillorian undergrowth at a surprising clip for a woman as elderly as she appears to be.

"How are preparations at the castle going, to find our High King a sweetheart?" the old woman asks as she hurries ahead.

"Her Majesty seems to be enjoying the challenge," Eliot says. A thought hits him. "You didn't give me your name yet."

The old woman smiles. "You didn't ask for it yet, sire."

"Hi, my name is Eliot, what's _your_ name?"

"Ramof, my King," the old woman says.

Eliot squints at the back of her head. It's an odd name for sure, but even though Ember and Umber haven't shown Their Holy Hairy Horned Heads anywhere around these parts for centuries, if They even exist (which Eliot doubts at this point), Fillorians remain _obsessed_ with rams. There are probably a hundred Ramofs scattered around Fillory. And Ramones. And Ramonas. Rampelstiltzkins?

"Are we nearly there?"

"Of course, sire," Ramof says, still blitzing ahead through the grass.

Eliot is about to give up (gracefully, graciously, _quit like a little coward_ ) when Ramof stumbles to a halt in front of a particularly large tree.

"This one," Ramof points excitedly.

Eliot stares at it. It'll serve him right that he's gone all this way to help and all he's done is wasted time trailing after an old woman who's missing several sandwiches in her picnic. Well. No one has to know about this, he reasons. If the woman really is out of her skull, possibly assisted by any number of Fillorian funghi, no one will ever believe her rambling about tricking the King of Fillory out into the forest.

"An animal is trapped _inside this tree,_ " Eliot says, dubiously.

"Or a small child," Ramof says. "Come closer. Listen!"

Eliot narrows his eyes. She’s probably off her rocker. But what if she's right, and he becomes the King of Fillory who came all the way out here only to let a small child die? He feels vaguely aware that his empathy is being manipulated here, but he side-eyes the woman and gently stalks closer to the tree. There is a sound, maybe. But not really like crying. He steps nearer, frowning. It doesn't sound like an animal at all. It sounds like _buzzing._

Curious, he moves right up close to the trunk and brings up his fingers, ready to do a quick tut to check if there's anything magical about it, but his curiosity ends up being his doom: he hears a small noise and turns just in time to see the old woman leap up, grab onto a branch, and swing herself at him, boots first.

Eliot moves to react but he's too slow, and her feet impact the arms he brings up in defense. He's formulating the spell he's going to use in his mind, but even the small knock causes him to stumble back, and he braces himself for the agony of hitting the tree trunk—how was such an old woman _so strong?_ —but it's a pain that doesn't come.

Because he's not hitting anything. Eliot's somehow still falling back, and falling, and _falling—_ And yeah, Eliot figures out that he's been knocked through a portal of some kind by the time he's finished falling through it.

Something hits his elbow and he falls backwards _hard,_ landing solidly on a smooth floor. The impact knocks the wind out of him and he can't help gasping in pain. Eliot's vision swims. All he can see is a blur of bland colors, magnolia and mahogany, and he whimpers again, his head and back throbbing. There'll be more than one fucking bruise come morning.

"What the fucking _hell_?" an angry voice yells and Eliot grimaces, brings up his hands defensively as his vision refocuses and a room swims into place around him. It looks like… Eliot wants to say a sitting room of some kind. A boring, _Earth_ sitting room. The voice sounds Canadian. A face swims into view, as boring as the room it belongs to: everything about the guy screams mediocre and middle-of-the-road. "Another fucking one? Where the fuck are you guys coming from?"

Eliot ignores the man in favor of pushing himself up to his feet. Even that motion hurts. There's a clock in front of him with the door hanging open. Was that where he came out? Eliot hurtles forward, pressing his hand into the back of the clock. Nothing. He closes the clock door quickly and re-opens it, hoping to see the distinctive puckering that meant a portal was inside. Nothing. Eliot scowls and lifts up his hands in the exploratory tut he was attempting on the tree. There's a few traces of portal energy wisping through the gap of his fingers. The clock _was_ a portal, but it's not now. He could probably re-open it, if he had a few hours.

Eliot whirls on his heels, wondering if the clock's owner would be amenable to it, but it's just in time to see the man reaching for...a baseball bat? What godforsaken land has Eliot appeared in this time? He's glad for his gift of telekinesis—Eliot brings a hand forward and curves his fingers in the memorable pattern, and his magic kicks in for him, instinctive. The bat skids away from the man, before he can reach it, and the man's eyes widen. Eliot brings up his hands.

"I'm not trying to hurt you," Eliot says, "I only need—"

"I don't care what you need," the man hisses, grabbing a plate off the wall and hurling it at Eliot. Eliot manages to use his magic to deflect it and he backs up a few paces. "Are you with them?"

"With _who_?"

"The two men with spears who nearly _stabbed me_ yesterday."

Eliot held up his hands defensively, his mind racing. "If you could just give me a second—"

The man throws something else, a hardback book. "I'll be calling the cops again, don't you fucking worry! What the fuck are you guys after?"

Gods, Eliot's having painful flashbacks to a misspent youth. "If you could listen to me—"

"Get the _hell out of here,_ " the man shrieks and grabs what looks like a massive knife and oh god, okay, Eliot's not going to be able to reasonably argue with this man. He assesses the situation and decides to make a temporary retreat.

Stumbling back, Eliot manages to fumble open what he hopes is a door to outside. It leads to a hallway, but Eliot can see the glimpse of sunlight under the door at the end, so he turns and runs for it, slamming the door open with his magic as he goes.

It only occurs to him that it's panic and stress pushing him on when it's too late, when he's already fled for ten minutes down a number of gray streets lined with black fences and small pitiful attempts of trees. There are people too, increasing numbers of people, and smells and sights that don't really make sense to Eliot's poor, frightened brain. He gets a few side-looks here and there, and he's forced to slow into a still-frenetic stumbling walk. People, his brain registers slowly. Regular _Earth_ people. Muggles, probably. There is a distinctive mix of smells, a smell Eliot feels like he must remember, that he should know, that he has to be able to put a name to—

Eliot nearly collides right into a hot dog vendor at the exact second the puzzle pieces slam into place. He manages to avoid the vendor and mutters an apology before continuing on. It all makes terrible, horrible sense.

The determined crowds who barely even spare him a glance, even though they're wearing sleek fashionable clothes and Eliot looks like he's stumbled out a medieval-themed matinee revue.

The stores on the street corners with groceries in their windows in neat, careful tetris stacks.

The noise of traffic underpinned by the discordant melody of taxis and people, electricity thrumming beneath it all.

New York. Eliot runs away from Earth to rule a magical fucking kingdom, and ends up somehow back in _New Fucking York?_

He almost wants to laugh. He does laugh. Someone tells him to fuck off. Eliot can hardly breathe. He's going to have a panic attack if he doesn't get off the streets soon. He needs to go back and retrace his steps, back to that apartment with the crazy man and Eliot vaguely thinks that the plate that was hurled at his head had a painting of the Cozy Horse on it, which is an insane thought, because Eliot really isn't in Fillory anymore, Jesus.

Eliot catches a glimpse of green in the distance. Oh, the park. Because he's in New York. Fucking hell. He thinks he's getting to the part of New York he knows. Well, at least there's _that._ His feet move on some sort of old autopilot, muscle memory kicking in. He can move like a New Yorker, fast enough to meld into the flow, to not stand out. If he pulls off his crown, he'd probably blend in more, but it's _New York_. Strangeness is part of her rhythm.

Maybe there's another portal, Eliot thinks. It's Fillory. Eliot never read the books but Margo did. They reasoned Plover must have found his way to Fillory at some point. Margo insists most of the environmental detail is right, and a lot of the creatures are accurate for Fillory. Portals to it must exist somewhere. Maybe they were everywhere. He and Margo had certainly found one way in themselves, barely months after graduation. Her theory is that Plover probably got disappointed by how endlessly boring it was as a magical land and decided to retire to Earth and use it as a setting for his tame fantasy novels.

Anyway, if Eliot and Margo and a random fabric salesman could stumble on a portal to Fillory, maybe a trained magician could _deliberately_ do so. The park was a good destination for that.

Only, it was kind of like looking for a portal, in, well, nearly 800 acres of land. Eliot doesn't really care who sees him walking around with his fingers outstretched—it's _New York_ and he's dressed like a fantasy King, he'd be letting the city down if he _didn't_ act fucking weird—but he's forced to admit that he's getting nowhere after a couple of hours of searching.

Eliot is going to have to try and retrace his steps back to the apartment of the guy who wanted to stab him. Amazing. Eliot sighs and sags onto the nearest bench, sinking his face into his hands and wishing, just once, rather desperately, that Margo was here.

A feminine voice distracts him from his moping. "Awfully nice day for a walk, isn't it?"

Eliot's head lurches up at the sound of the question. The speaker isn't exactly what Eliot is expecting. He doesn't know _what_ he's expecting—the voice sounds British, but Eliot's tired, and used to ruling over myriad sentient creatures that don't all look human. He might have had expectations, back in pre-Fillory times.

It's a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties. Pale and skinny, she's almost disarmingly pretty, with dark hair in two intricate braids that are pinned up in loops. She's wearing a black dress, although one of the buttons doesn't match the rest; it's a flaw that somehow adds to her overall charming aura.

"I suppose so," Eliot says. He offers her the briefest smile he can manage. It's another fake one. That's all he ever seems to have for the Fillorians: fake, affected, plastic smiles.

She doesn't seem put off by it, though. "You look exhausted, you poor thing." The woman smiles at him with her wide, pretty mouth. "Are you lost? Is there anything I can do to help?"

Eliot looks at her wearily. He manages to swallow back _shut up and leave me alone._ "Not unless you know the way to Fillory," he says instead, closing his eyes and leaning back on the bench. If nothing else, at least the weather _is_ nice; this pale, pretty interloper is right about that.

"Here it is, I suppose," the woman says, and Eliot's eyes snap open in surprise. She's holding an object towards him that Eliot, after an embarrassing pause, realizes must be some sort of phone. Has he been in Fillory so long that _this_ is what has happened to technology? Jesus. You take a ten-year sabbatical to rule a fantasy kingdom and the world rudely moves on without you. The woman is pointing at the screen; the shiny yellow enamel ring she's wearing clinks against the side of her tiny phone. "That's the address. Do you need directions?"

Eliot peers in closer. _Fillory and Further!_ Underneath a star rating of 4.6 and a link to a website is a smaller description: _Bookstore and repair shop in New York City, New York._ He blinks, slowly. Sometimes magicians hide things in plain sight, maybe it's one of those underground portal businesses he heard whispers about, in the weeks before he and Margo got kicked out of Brakebills. It's a lead, he supposes. And it looks close, according to the tiny phone screen.

"Please," Eliot says, with more urgency now that he has a plan. It's close enough that if it's _not_ a lead to a portal he won't be wasting time, and he's increasingly reluctant to go back to find the original place he came through. The guy hadn't seemed exactly friendly, and had mentioned men with spears. Had Romaf tested the portal with Spear-Bearers before luring him into it? If so, where were they?

Besides, the portal had been closed behind him. The clock would have let him back through otherwise. There's no guarantee even if he finds the same house again that he'll be able to return that way. He can reopen a closed portal but not once that's been forcibly blocked from the other side, and if someone went to all the trouble of kicking him through it, they probably wouldn't want him back.

Suddenly all the sunshine in the world isn't enough to stop Eliot from feeling terribly cold and horribly worried. What if he's actually stuck on Earth? Forever? Never to see Margo again? The more his thoughts spiral, the more glad he is that he came across this woman.

The woman whips out a notebook from her pocket and helpfully writes down the address and some brief directions that she seems to note down from the screen.

"Thanks," Eliot says numbly when she hands it over. Fillory and Further, huh? It's only six streets away. Worse case, Eliot wastes ten minutes of his time staring up at a shop with a coincidental name.

"I hope you find what you're looking for," the woman says.

"Yeah," Eliot replies, "me too."


	2. Quentin

So here's where Quentin Coldwater's part of this story starts:

Julia does a magic trick.

Quentin freaks the fuck out.

* * *

Julia doesn't notice Quentin staring at her, appalled, until she's finished the elaborate series of gestures that polish the candelabra without any of them having to go fetch a ladder. Considering Quentin's track record with ladders (bad) and Julia's confidence levels in Quentin's ability to hold a ladder for her without somehow tripping over his feet despite standing still (very low), magic is the best solution for dealing with the annoyingly high ceilings of _Fillory and Further_.

Quentin glares at her anyway, even though she's calmly dusting her hands off and beaming at the newly shining light fixture. She's supposed to wait until closing to do any magic. He glares at her while she smartens up a stack of Tolkien books. He folds his arms across his chest when she brings out a duster and runs it the muggle way across an inner panel of one of their display cases. He tenses his chin mulishly as she hums under her breath and untangles some of the canvas bags that hang up on a hook between the Crime and True Crime bookcase, each printed with a different Austen quote. The front one reads: " _The person, be it gentleman or lady, who has not pleasure in a good novel, must be intolerably stupid_." He taps his foot as Julia takes the time to straighten it out so all the words are visible.

It's the sighing under his breath that finally catches her notice.

Julia narrows her eyes and mimics his posture. "Why is your face doing the same thing it did when you'd realized I'd put pine needles in Miles' cage and accidentally made him bald?"

Miles had been Quentin's hamster in third grade, named after Miles O'Brien from Star Trek. When he broke his arm (falling down the stairs because he hadn't been able to put _The Wandering Dune_ down and thus had completely missed that the stairs existed, despite having lived in the same house for over ten years) she'd promised to look after him while he was in hospital—only she ran out of the bedding and added pine needles to Miles' cage.

Quentin had chosen Miles as a name in particular because he was a fast little thing. The lack of fur made Miles perpetually cold, kinda ugly (although Quentin staunchly defended his hamster against any implication from others of that, because he was still fricking adorable, thank you very much, with his packed little cheeks and beady bright eyes), and it also seemed to streamline the little idiot, because his speed increased after that.

He never got his fur back, bless the poor creature. Julia tried to crochet him a hamster-sized sweater in apology. Miles died before she ever finished it, but Quentin appreciated that she'd tried to stitch a tiny comms badge onto it.

"It's the middle of the afternoon, Jules," Quentin says levelly.

Julia blinks at him, lost for a brief moment, but she never stays confused for long. And she's known Quentin for years. If anyone can speak fluent Quentin Coldwater, it's Julia Wicker.

"No one was around," Julia rolls her eyes. "Calm your tits."

"My tits are calm. I thought we agreed no magic in the bookstore during term time."

Julia exhales roughly and starts angrily organizing a display on books that had been made into movies. Quentin had had a shitfit when she’d first suggested that display, but Kady had managed to intervene and argue Quentin down off his ledge by getting Julia to agree not to stock a single one of those "movie cover" editions. As much as Quentin spends most of the time wary of Julia's choice in life partners, he will concede that Kady and Penny _very occasionally_ have their good points.

"You agreed that, Q. You. Not me. I believe I only promised to uphold the code." Julia waves her arms around. "There's not a muggle in sight." She slams a copy of _Q & A_ onto the top of the pile.

"But performing it in an open space during the day can make us sloppy. Muscle memory can be dangerous, Jules—"

"And you can be that strict with it, Q. I don't need you to be my personal magic gatekeeper. I don't agree with that particular aspect of your childrearing when it comes to magic, but I'm not going to wreck it for you either—it's your kid, you get to choose how to raise him. But I'm an adult, you don't get to tell me that I can't control when and where I use my own goddamn magic!"

The door jangles, a few words from the end of Julia's tirade. Quentin and Julia turn in unison to face the customer, an old woman wearing what looked like a self-knitted beret. Her eyes look wide-eyed between the two of them.

"She really loves Harry Potter," Quentin offers weakly as Julia's cheeks go pink.

It turns out the woman isn't put off by Julia's yelling and she shuffles out happily a few minutes later with a second-hand hardback of _The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie_.

"Don't say a word," Julia warns Quentin as she comes back to the counter after helping the woman to the door. Julia wags a finger at him. "You might have a tiny point. Do not get cocky about it. I'll still be using magic down here. But next time, maybe after we've closed?" Her pretty mouth twists apologetically.

Quentin opens his mouth.

"And," Julia quickly interrupts, "when I'm sure Teddy is nowhere in sight."

"Thank you," Quentin says. "I'm trying to do what's best for him."

"I know. That's why it's hard to stay mad at you." Julia flashes him a smile as she finishes marking off the sale in her ledger with a flourish. Only Penny seems to have gotten into a habit of technology, and that’s mostly because he’s addicted to online auction sites. Quentin uses it when he has to. While they all grew up in the muggle world, they got out of the habit of it at Brakebills. It's taken Quentin years to figure out how to make sure his cellphone is charged at all times; the increased anxiety of having to let Teddy out of his sight for large chunks of time helped compel him to learn. He never wants Teddy to be unable to reach him. "Shouldn't you change your wardrobe before you go pick him up?"

"Huh?" Quentin frowns at Julia before looking down at himself. He's still wearing his dusty work apron over his bright pink _Fillory and Further_ t-shirt. "Oh, shoot." He hurriedly unties it, hanging it up on the hook behind the counter.

" _Shoot_ ," Julia mimics, but her expression is kind.

"You could stand to use more child-friendly vocabulary swaps."

"I'm already having to pretend to my own godson that magic doesn't exist—"

"And I appreciate that," Quentin says, sniffing experimentally at his shirt and pulling a face. "But I had to spend ten minutes at last week's parents' evening explaining why Teddy called the class bully an engorged testicle."

Julia raised her eyebrows. "I hope you gave him an allowance raise for that one."

"I told him to amend his language."

"And then?"

Quentin looks sheepish. "And then I took him for pizza and an ice cream."

Julia fistbumps him. "Go shower. I think I can handle the traffic down here on my own for ten minutes."

"Are you sure?" Quentin blinks around the empty bookstore owlishly.

"Get upstairs, you brat, before I change my mind."

* * *

Quentin at least idly _considers_ making a mental note to clean his and Teddy's apartment when he gets through the front door and is confronted by the usual mess. Surely there are imaginary points for thinking about it?

He knows his and Teddy's small home is a dump. His parents would be appalled. People who see it usually are. Quentin wishes he had it more together, but between the bookstore and his mending and looking after Teddy, Quentin has to get his priorities in order—as long as Teddy is clean, clothed, fed, cared for, and loved, Quentin's happy. Having a showroom-level clean home is way down Quentin's priority list, even if he knows that he'd probably be in a better mental state with a clean apartment.

Every time he tries to get on top of it, something happens, and he ends up falling behind again. Executive dysfunction is the worst. Quentin's trying his best. He usually just...ends up staying out of the apartment as much as possible. Either down in the bookstore, or his workshop, or he takes Teddy up to hang out in the main penthouse, because Julia, Penny, and Kady run their top-floor penthouse apartment as an open free-for-all. Quentin doesn't even know if Josh even has the Palazzo anymore, he's practically glued to the penthouse couch (and kitchen.)

Quentin picks his way around the chaos, skirting the piles of (clean!) laundry and books to get to the bathroom. The door is open and he kicks it closed with his heel. It doesn't shut properly but it never does, he should get around to fixing that at some point. The hamper's overflowing, he should probably work on that first actually, but Quentin's own laundry usually ends up behind—he prioritizes Teddy's over his own. It's why he tends to end up wearing the same few items of clothing over and over again.

He knows he should put in more effort. Alice has already been making noises about him always showing up for their dates in his bookstore t-shirt. She's probably got a point, she's always wearing one of her pretty dresses when they meet for coffee or a quick lunch. She's not overtly dismissive, but Quentin's been starting to sense the faint whiff of disappointment from her when she makes a brief reference to the bright shade of his work shirts.

All the _Fillory and Further_ shirts come in neon shades. They were the cheapest option when the four of them were starting out as fresh Brakebills graduates, trying to make a start in life. Quentin snagged all the pink ones and he likes to pretend that the others didn't too-happily let him. But it makes sense—Penny's obsessed with orange tones, Kady looks great in green, and Julia's always liked yellow. She was wearing a yellow flower in her hair the day they met. Quentin had thought he'd fallen in love with her that very second. He still thinks he did, but he knows now it's platonic, and he feels lucky every time that he thinks about that—who else is lucky enough to find their platonic soulmate in life at such a young age?

Quentin eyes the shower warily but makes himself strip his clothes off and jump in. He used to wrestle with the shower, staring at it for an hour sometimes some mornings to raise up the courage or the energy to clamber in. He still thinks the entrance and exit of showers are the worst parts. Having Teddy transformed his life in more ways than one: thinking about his son as motivation to do things helps him at least manage to do the basics.

Well, that and the pills. Julia had marched Quentin to the doctor the very day she found out Dean Fogg had taken his medication away and gotten him back onto a schedule; Quentin's studies had only flourished since that moment. Sometimes Quentin buys Julia a couple of extra shots, enough to get her tipsy enough to start ranting about Brakebills' idea of appropriate educational staff. She gets very passionate on the subject. And her language gets beautifully creative.

Thinking of Teddy gets Quentin moving quickly. Having only just lectured Julia about it, he still resorts to a tut to quick-dry his hair (hey, being a magician has to come with some perks, and his son and the public are safely out of sight) and he roughly towel-dries, before dressing and making sure his cellphone is still in his pocket and has enough charge.

Julia flashes him a discreet thumbs up as he hurries back through the shop—she's busy selling some book-themed greeting cards to a tall, broad-shouldered man with a face that looks like he's been slammed into a van, his features all squashed together—and Quentin nods as he heads out of the shop.

It's funny how he still feels naked without his shoulder bag. He carried that thing for four years after he and Julia had graduated from Brakebills. Arielle joked that he'd probably try and wear it in the registry office when they got married. Quentin blanches whenever he thinks about his ex-wife. He doesn't think about her every hour of every day anymore, but when he does, it's with the same stab of disappointment. There wasn't any need for her consuming jealousy about magic. Quentin was happy to keep their life magic-free. He remembers promising her that he would even leave the shop, leave his business, go wherever they wanted as long as it meant her not leaving, but it wasn't enough. Quentin and Teddy weren't enough for her to stay. Quentin can understand _him_ not being enough, but not Teddy. Teddy is wonderful, he's everything to Quentin, and he'll never understand how Arielle could bear to leave him behind.

 _You don't understand, Quentin._ Quentin can recall her parting words exactly. It's the gift and curse of having an anxious brain, the ability to recall the most painful times of your life with excruciating exactness. _I grew up as a squib in a magical household. I swore I'd never let myself feel this inferior again_. It didn't matter that Teddy hadn't shown an inch of magical potential—Quentin had even begged Lipson to visit on one of her rare days off from Brakebills and examine him, even though three-year-old children rarely showed their magical potential at that age—but that hadn't stopped her. Teddy was potentially magical and that was too much for Arielle to handle.

Teddy's nine now and still hasn't shown any hint of magical adeptness. It's why Quentin's so determined to hide magic from him. He doesn't want his son to experience the same heartache as his mother, the knowledge that magic is real and exists and he can't have a part of it. Quentin can still remember with clarity how life-changing his discovery of magic was, how amazing he felt doing his first working, an intricate card-castle with spinning towers, a fanciful representation of what he thought Castle Whitespire would look like. The idea of Teddy knowing that's out there in the world but not able to do it himself? Quentin couldn't take that thought.

Ignorance is kinder, most of the time.

Because of his hustling in the bathroom, Quentin's at the school before class has ended, and he loiters awkwardly at a distance, enduring the occasional glances being sent his way. The mothers pity him for being a single dad; the nannies are uncomfortable that he understands every language they try and speak (Brakebills makes polyglots of all of its graduates); and the fathers that wait often try and drag him into a sports discussion, and the only sport Quentin can speak fluently is Welters. Julia had been an international school division champion; Quentin had been relegated to being her number one cheerleader, as the Physical Kids didn't have enough willing players to form their own team.

Now Push, that's more Quentin's game. They even managed to teach Teddy a pared-back non-magic version of it, although sometimes Quentin accidentally does magic during that one; thank goodness he can fall back on his sleight-of-hand to explain those rare occurrences.

Quentin has enough time, so he slides his phone out and stares at it dubiously. He has an unread message from Alice. He should probably call her. He takes a deep breath. It's a Thursday, so she should be finished with her labs by now. He stares at the green call icon and opens his messages instead.

Alice's message is brief and efficient: "Still okay for tomorrow?"

"Yes!" he types back. His fingers hover over the emojis and then he quickly presses send, rather than send her the wrong color heart. He's still awkward with technology and can't bring himself to use textspeak.

Alice texts back almost immediately which makes Quentin feel guilty. He has a girlfriend. And it's not her fault he has abandonment issues. She deserves more of an effort. She's clever, hard-working, kind, so beautiful; if Alice had been at Brakebills, Quentin would have fallen for her immediately. Unfortunately for some reason Alice had to go all the way to Tasmania to get accepted to a magic school, which boggles Quentin's mind—he's seen her magic. It's exquisite. He doesn't know what Dean Fogg was thinking, never extending her an invitation.

"Looking forward to it. Did Teddy enjoy the book you picked out for him?"

She even cares about his kid, even though she's only met Teddy a couple of times now, once for a coffee, and once for a couple of hours at the National History museum. Teddy seemed to like her too, especially when she had reeled off a whole ten minute speech about dinosaurs based on one little question he had. Quentin likes her a lot. He doesn't quite have butterflies in his stomach. He doesn't wake up dying to speak to her. But he's an adult. Love doesn't work like that in the real world. Alice and he seem like they're incredibly compatible, from their opinion on magic (fun on occasion; infinitely interesting to think about philosophically; perhaps too dangerous to be in the hands of even most of the magicians who have it) to a quiet dedication to their chosen careers. That's what really matters, more than giddy attraction or desperate hormones. Their lives have a good possibility of meshing well. And while Quentin can't make Alice laugh, he knows he can make her smile. She makes him smile, too. Quentin doesn't know what's holding him back from introducing her properly to Julia and the rest of their friends.

Well. He kinda does know. But he doesn't really want to think about that too much. It's bad enough he has to face it at his weekly therapy sessions.

"I'm giving it to him before he goes to practice," Quentin types back.

"I'm sure he's going to love it!" Alice responds, with a little yellow heart. Oh. Is that the kind he's supposed to be using? Quentin stares down at the screen, wondering if he should send one back. Or maybe he should send a pink one. Did emoji hearts have different meanings, or was that flowers?

He's saved by the bell—literally. Teddy's one of the first kids to come screaming out of the front doors; his kid brightens when he sees Quentin waiting for him. Quentin beams automatically. God, he loves him. He'd take the pain of Arielle leaving a thousand times to get to see that small, beautiful face every single day. Quentin didn't even know he could love one person so much, until he first held Teddy in his arms and fell head over heels in love.

Teddy skids to a halt, his face pink from running so fast, and beams up at Quentin. "Hey, dad!" He notices Quentin's phone, still held helplessly in his hand, and he rolls his eyes, leaning in and pressing the red heart before looking up at his dad almost challengingly.

"Oh, is that what you think I should send?"

Teddy shrugs. "Alice is nice. You like her."

Quentin stares. He misses when life was that simple. Although did Quentin ever see life as simple? He can't remember. Ugh. Growing older is totally overrated. He pockets the phone without sending the heart and tries to pretend his nine-year-old kid isn't staring at him with well-deserved judgment.

"Let's get home," Quentin says instead, because he's a coward who will never not change the subject at will when he's uncomfortable.

* * *

Teddy half-heartedly complains about his post-school snack, but he's not steamed enough about it to slip upstairs to see if Josh is awake to make him something else; it feels more like Teddy just wants to complain, which Quentin can empathize with. School days are cruelly long and stressful, Quentin has always believed that. But with the business, and raising Teddy on his own—albeit with a nice supportive group of friends always willing to babysit—it means he can't homeschool Teddy. Quentin regrets it, occasionally, but that's probably the selfish part of him that wants to stare adoringly at his kid for hours at a time.

Okay, he's obsessed with his son. But how can he not be? Teddy is easily the best thing Quentin's ever done.

While Teddy eats his fruit, Quentin hurries around their apartment, collecting all the equipment Teddy will need for his karate class. He blames Julia for that—her obsession with Jet Li has corrupted his son thoroughly. Quentin guesses it could be worse—Julia got him obsessed with Fillory. Screw meta-composition, Julia's ability to drag Coldwaters into obsessions is her real Discipline.

Quentin's not entirely unprepared—all of Teddy's karate gear is clean and in good condition. It's just…scattered. Like Quentin's mind.

He finally gets it all together and Teddy takes over the packing. Probably to double-check his poor dad has everything he needs in the pile. He tries to ruffle Teddy's hair and Teddy ducks away. Teddy had blond hair when he was small, but it's darkening into Quentin's shade of brown. Quentin kind of hates that, but only because it means Teddy's getting older, and one day Teddy will leave too—

No. He can't think that like it's a bad thing. Quentin's job as a parent is to prepare Teddy to leave. Teddy wouldn't be leaving Quentin; he would be starting his big adventure.

"I have something for you," Quentin says, startling Teddy up from his serious and focused packing.

Presents can always distract Teddy. "Yeah?"

Quentin moves over to where the gift is, propped up on the side table near the main door so he wouldn't forget it. He presents it to Teddy with a flourish.

"I can open it now?" Teddy's eyes are wide.

"Of course you can."

Teddy beams and rips excitedly into the package. It's obviously a book, but Teddy's still eager—Quentin is thrilled Teddy inherited his love of reading. Except, Teddy's face falls for the briefest second when he sees the book. A pit forms in Quentin's stomach.

"It's great, dad," Teddy says, after a pause.

Quentin frowns softly at Teddy. The disappointment that's clear in Teddy's brief dismay is a bit of a sting, Quentin's not going to lie to himself about that. "It's from the exhibit we went to the other week," Quentin says, softly. "With Alice?"

"Yeah. Thanks, dad." Bless him, Teddy's trying hard to look excited about it.

Fuck. He's got such a great kid. Quentin hates disappointing him. He swallows back the urge to sell the book to his son. Teddy will read it or he won't. It's up to him.

"Maybe next time I can look for another type of book," Quentin says, gently. "What sort of thing would you like next? We could look downstairs. Aunt Julia said you can make a wishlist of books to earn with bookstore chores if you want, we could start on that?"

"Yeah, maybe," Teddy says, brow furrowing as he starts thinking about that.

Quentin and Julia both agree that some work-like structure will probably be good for him. Especially considering what happened on Monday. Teddy swore blind the charred papers in his bag had been for a science class, but his teacher denied it, and mentioned something about someone setting a fire in the school bathroom. Quentin doesn't want to think about his son causing trouble like that, or lying to him.

Quentin would give Teddy more home chores to do, but they don't spend much time in their apartment. Teddy tends to do most of his homework in the corner of the bookstore, and they eat half of their meals up in the penthouse. They can keep an eye on him in the store, so they're going to try and let him do some easy housework-style things there. Taking the trash out to the bins, sorting out recycling, maybe dusting the lowest shelves if no customers are around. It's better than leaving him stuck in the corner with a book for hours, and he's gonna get to "earn" some books while he's at it.

Quentin has to leave Teddy somewhere when he's doing his mending work downstairs. Not just because Quentin wants to keep the knowledge of magic away from his son, but because some of the commissions Quentin gets are dangerous. Quentin would be content enough selling books, but his mending and Kady's magical PI work brings in most of the money. They split the profits equally and help shore up each other's weaknesses and it works okay, if not quite perfectly.

Ideally they need another worker. Josh does shift work for all three of them—on paper he works for the store but Kady and Quentin both borrow him too—but they've been struggling recently. Kady and Penny can't always man the office and do the legwork they need for their cases, so sometimes one of them will end up trying to staff the bookstore, field calls for the PI work, take down messages for Quentin's mending commissions, and then there's Julia's meta-composition work—

Unfortunately, they haven't been able yet to find another person who fits with them. They could afford another worker, easily. There's even a spare apartment upstairs if someone worked out well enough that they wanted to permanently join the team. But the hires they made last year didn't work out. Julia still lives in hope, but Quentin, Kady, and Penny have been mostly resigning themselves to the fact that they'll all be running around for a while.

"Do you think Aunt Julia has any books about dragons?" Teddy's face lights up. "There's a kid at school and he had a book about dragons and they're really cool, like dinosaurs, but with wings and they breathe fire—"

"I'm not sure she does," Quentin interrupts. "Dragons aren't real anyway."

"I know that, dad," Teddy rolls his eyes.

Quentin checks every book Teddy reads first. There's a risk, that's why. Sometimes a magical book slips through the careful efforts of the Magicians Court and into muggle hands, and if Teddy comes across it and tries to summon that dragon, he could be successful. There are rumors of a dragon living somewhere in the sewers on their street. Dragons liked small children. Their bones were easier to crunch. And that terrifying thought aside, even if Teddy escaped, Quentin would be forced to tell Teddy magic was real, and then—

Quentin exhales, cutting his sinking thoughts off. He's catastrophizing again. He needs to be mindful and present, in this moment. Tomorrow will happen anyway and all Quentin can do is adjust to new situations as they occur.

"Listen, kiddo," Quentin starts.

"Oh, no."

Quentin falters. He folds his arms defensively. "What?"

"Whenever you call me kiddo it means you're about to say something serious." Teddy sighs and in one smooth motion manages to move his packed bag to the floor, sitting neatly in the chair. Quentin envies the smoothness of that move. Teddy definitely did not inherit that trait from him.

"Oh." Quentin blinks, unfolds his arms, and then realizes he doesn't know what to do with his hands. He settles on shoving them in his pockets. "Well, I wanted to tell you something. That might be serious."

Teddy's eyes are wide with worry. Shit. Quentin's probably approaching this all wrong. "What is it?"

"It's nothing bad," Quentin says hurriedly, because Teddy probably has inherited some of Quentin's anxiety, and he wants to reassure him. "You like Alice, right?"

"She's okay." Teddy perks up. "I do like how much she knows about dinosaurs." His kid also inherited Quentin's passive-aggressive leaning too because he adds, "And they were definitely real."

Quentin's jaw tenses briefly. He loves him, but also, wow, it's difficult to see his worst characteristics rearing their head occasionally in his tiny son. "Well, Alice is going to take you to school tomorrow. So you can get to know each other better."

Teddy stares at Quentin dubiously. "Do we have to go to her place?"

Alice lives much further out; she works nearby, though. "No, she'll come here."

Teddy hums under his breath. "I guess that's okay. Did you put her name on the register at school?"

"I did," Quentin says, his stomach crunching. His kid shouldn't have to feel he had to chase up something like that. Teddy should be able to trust Quentin to cover everything for him. "I really like her, kid—Teddy. I think we might be seeing more of her."

"Does that mean you're finally going to let her meet Aunt Julia?" Teddy's eyes widen innocently. "She keeps saying she wants to. She told Aunt Kady you were ashamed of them."

 _Why the little_ — Quentin inhales, vows to yell at Julia later, and forces himself to keep a straight face. "If this goes well, then, yeah," Quentin says, slowly. "What do you think about that?"

"I'm not sure I'm ready for a stepmom," Teddy says. "They're always mean in the fairy tales."

"Well, luckily for you," Quentin says, extracting a hand from his pocket to ruffle Teddy's hair, (this time his son doesn't have time to duck away), "fairy tales aren't real."

* * *

Julia perks up as soon as Quentin and Teddy come clattering down the stairs.

"Oh, thank goodness," she says, bouncing on the balls of her feet impatiently. "Please tell me you're running early."

Quentin narrows his eyes. Of course he's running early. It's one of the fun ways his anxiety manifests sometimes; he's so focused on not being late that he builds in so many soft margins to allow for delays that he usually ends up either early to everything, or chronically late anyway because he didn't schedule in three hours of staring blankly into space.

"We can kill ten minutes," Quentin offers.

"Do you mind manning the register for a bit?" Julia gestures unnecessarily in the direction of the staff bathrooms. She doesn't need to say a word, Julia's been doing the same ‘holding in pee' dance for as long as Quentin's known her. Quentin nods and she lets out a sigh of relief.

"Where's Josh?" Quentin calls, already heading for the counter as she skids towards the back of the shop.

"Kady stole him," Julia yells as she disappears through the door. Her voice is muffled as she adds, "Some client lost a truffle or something."

Ah, a food-related case. Quentin looks over at Ted who's standing there awkwardly in his coat and backpack. "You wanna make a headstart on that wishlist?" He pulls out one of the spare notepads that lives under the counter and a pen. Teddy's eyes light up as he comes and grabs it. "Remember the rules?"

"Nothing from the adult section, nothing over thirty dollars without a 500-word essay saying why I want it, and for every four fiction books I need at least one non-fiction."

"That's it. And I maintain the right to veto—"

"–any titles before you share it with Aunt Julia, yeah, yeah," Teddy finishes almost dismissively, already running over to the kids corner.

"Don't run in the store," Quentin calls. Teddy rolls his eyes and Quentin pretends he didn't see it. It's probably going to be a useful skill to work on for when his son hits puberty.

The list and rules are more to corral Julia than anything. Even Kady and Penny overly spoil Teddy. Quentin and Teddy's apartment would hold half the books downstairs if Quentin hadn't maintained some strict guidelines. Even so, every wall in their apartment is lined with full bookshelves.

Julia might have been able to temporarily lock the store for a few minutes for all the customers that come in (or more precisely, don’t come in) instead of making Quentin wait there. He spends a few minutes rearranging the bookmarks that live in a stand to the right of the register, making sure the tassels on them all line up the same way because he knows Julia will appreciate that. Teddy's staring avidly at a shelf of recipe books, which is technically in the adult section of the store, but Quentin's not going to dissuade him from being interested in cooking or baking. There's no magic in that. Just plenty of chemistry. It's basically science. Edible, tasty science.

Julia beams at him when she comes out of the bathroom, wiping her hands on her jeans because in some ways she's more socially adjusted than Quentin and in others, she's as much a mess as he is. It's part of why they work so well—they've always been a beautiful Venn diagram of overlapping disasters.

"You're a lifesaver," Julia beams. Teddy notices her and trots over, the pad still in his hand, and Julia, damn her, realizes what's going on and snags Teddy's burgeoning wishlist before Quentin can grab it. Dammit. Her eyes light up at the list and she ruffles Teddy's head before passing it over to Quentin. "Don't bother vetoing anything, Coldwater. It's already up here." She taps the side of her head.

Quentin sighs. Even if he vetoes anything on the list for the chore exchange, those exact books will probably turn up anyway at one of the few times of year the "give things to Teddy" limit isn't so strictly controlled. His birthday is only a couple of months away.

"Dad," Teddy yells across, "c'mon, it's time to go."

Quentin turns to see his son putting his backpack on and he nods, starting to move.

"Oh, quick, one more thing. You had a call while you were upstairs," Julia says. "Mrs. Arbogast. She's gonna bring by a box of things she wants you to check out."

"Tomorrow? I have the first two hours blocked off for the Callahan thing, but after that, if things up here don't get too bad—"

"I told her she could stop by after eleven."

"Great."

"Daaaaaad," Teddy says.

Quentin grins helplessly at Julia and holds up his hands. "We gotta go. Sorry Jules."

"Have fun," Julia calls across to Teddy. "Kick some ass!"

"Karate is an art form, it's not for violence," Teddy corrects. "Come on, let's go!"

Quentin moves, but not fast enough for Teddy, who pelts for the door, suddenly remembering he's only minutes away from seeing his karate friends and eager for it.

Way too eager.

Distracted by Julia's message for him, Quentin hadn't noticed the customer approaching the stop. Quentin sees him at the exact same second Teddy excitedly slams the front door open.

Right into the customer's face.

Quentin's stomach drops in utter mortification. He and Julia move in unison. Teddy is stumbling back, gaping up at the person he's just hit. Quentin's brain whines at him wondering why they thought it would be better having a door that opens outwards rather than into the store. It was to fit more books in the store without blocking the doors. But it was obviously a bad idea, because Teddy's managed to slam the entire weight of it into some stranger's face and yeah, there's definitely blood.

Julia ushers Teddy out of the way so Quentin can stumble up to the stranger, concern turning his thoughts into an exclamation mark.

"Jesus, are you okay?" Quentin breathes. He can't tell if the potential customer is badly injured. He can't see enough of them to know. They're tall, dressed in fancier clothing than Quentin's ever worn in his life, except for that time he and Julia tried to go to a Fillory LARPing event and she made him wear a richly embroidered velvet doublet that smelled like her Aunt Rosemary's parlor. And tights. The tights kinda suited him, actually; Quentin almost wishes he'd kept them.

The injured potential customer's face is covered by their hands. Blood is dripping through their fingers which is not a good sign. The stranger's hair is a glorious tumble of black curls, and they seem to be wearing a crown. Quentin has the oddest thought that if his hair was that perfect, he might want to wear a crown too.

"Are you okay?" Quentin firmly repeats, his hands hovering in case he needs to stop the stranger from falling over.

"I think so," the stranger mumbles in a rich, deep voice, _think_ coming out more like _fink_ because their nose is bleeding profusely. They lower their hands slowly, long capable blood-covered fingers moving to pinch at their nose, and the stranger looks up at Quentin then, wincing.

Quentin is stunned all over again. Just for a moment. A moment that feels like minutes, but can only be a few seconds, really. It's not the sight of blood, though. The stranger is probably the most attractive guy Quentin has ever seen in real life. And that's saying something—Keanu Reeves once gave Teddy his seat on the subway.

"Jesus, please, come inside, let's clean you up," Quentin says.

The man lets Quentin support him into the store, his legs wobbling. Teddy forgets all about getting to practice, recognizing that this is more important; Quentin's proud of the way his son runs to pull out one of the chairs while Julia heads for the First Aid Kit.

"I think I'm okay," the stranger says, in that pleasant rumble of a voice.

"Sit down," Quentin murmurs, guiding him to the seat. "I'm gonna need you to lean forward and breathe through your mouth, okay? We don't want you drinking your own blood right now."

"It wouldn't be the worst thing I've swallowed," the stranger says and Quentin tries not to grimace because Jesus, his kid is right there.

"I once accidentally ate a fly," Teddy chirps up helpfully.

The stranger manages to make a soft noise. "What hit me?"

"The door," Teddy says. "I'm really sorry."

"Don't worry about it," the stranger gallantly says. "I don't think anything's broken."

"You can't be sure," Julia says, firmly. "Do you remember your name? And where you are?"

"I'm K—" The stranger pauses, worrying Quentin, until he speaks again, his beautiful voice muffled by the gauze Julia presses to his nose; he takes it from her and pinches it over his nose like someone who's done it many times before. "I'm Eliot. Eliot Waugh. And I'm in New York. I was trying to see whether the _Fillory and Further_ bookstore was open."

"That's us," Quentin says. Eliot Waugh. Huh. Something about that name is ringing a weird bell in the back of his mind. "And yeah, we were open. Until—" He gestures at the door and Eliot's face and the blood everywhere.

"I'm gonna go get an ice pack," Julia says. She eyes Quentin. "You gonna be okay with this?"

"My phone's in my left pocket, if you can call Teddy's teacher and let him know we'll be running late," Quentin says, without looking at her, too worried about the stranger. Eliot. It's a nice name.

"Sensei, dad," Teddy corrects.

Quentin can feel Julia take the phone and hurry away.

"C'mon, Ted, you can help me carry what we need," Julia says, bless her quick thinking for getting Teddy out of the way while Quentin's concentration is firmly on this incident.

Quentin lowers down to a crouch, staring at Eliot in worry. He doesn't want to call an ambulance if it's unnecessary. It's time like this that he hates that magic is a secret, because Quentin took a minor healing module in his last year at Brakebills. It would only take a few minutes with magic to make sure Teddy hadn’t done any major damage.

"You sure nothing's broken?" Quentin asks. "I can call a doctor."

"No," Eliot blurts; his eyes fly to Quentin's warily, like he's worried Quentin will call him on the roughness of that outburst. "No," he repeats, softer. "I don't need a doctor."

"If you're sure," Quentin says, doubtfully.

"You could give me your name."

"Oh," Quentin startles. Well, no one could ever accuse him of being socially adjusted. "Quentin. Quentin Coldwater."

"Quentin _Coldwater_?" Eliot's eyebrows rise slightly in disbelief, like he can't believe Quentin's name is real.

Even bleeding, Eliot is probably the loveliest person Quentin's ever seen in his life. With his clothes, he even looks—well, it's embarrassing to admit, but…Eliot looks like the way Quentin had always imagined Martin Chatwin might look like, grown up and stepping out of a portal back to Earth, fresh from Fillory's silver age. Kingly. That's the word. And it's not just the crown giving that impression. Even injured and bowed over, there's a regal air to the way Eliot holds his shoulders. Overall, Eliot Waugh seems pretty damn unbelievable.

The blood, Quentin thinks sadly, is decidedly and depressingly adding to Eliot's realness.

"Uhuh," Quentin murmurs, realizing Eliot must be waiting for a response. Eliot's eyes are tracking Quentin warily. "Do you often stand in the way of things that could easily hit you?"

The gauze that Eliot is holding to his nose blocks Quentin's view of his mouth, but Quentin can hear a wry smile anyway when Eliot says, "I try not to make a habit of it."

Quentin hovers while he waits. Julia's still not back, but the trek to the penthouse is three flights up, and it's not like Quentin is on the ball enough to have ice in his freezer.

Eliot sits up and pulls the gauze away from his nose, squinting at the mess.

"I think you're supposed to stay with your head lowered for a while," Quentin offers.

"Oh, don't worry, this is not my first hit to the face," Eliot says, his voice a lot clearer. Quentin winces despite himself—there's blood all over the guy's face, in his stubble, and all down his beautifully embroidered tunic. "It's bad, huh?"

"There's a lot of blood," Quentin grimaces. "We've got a small bathroom at the back if you want to wash up?"

Eliot nods and gets up, even though Quentin should probably be telling him to rest. Quentin stares as Eliot closes the door behind himself. Should he have told Eliot to keep the door open in case he collapses? Oh, god, Quentin is not the best person to have around in a crisis.

He is a magician, though, Quentin reminds himself. Worst comes to worst he can get Julia to take Teddy to practice while he absconds with Eliot through the portal five streets away and take him directly to Brakebills. Lipson still owes him a favor from when he surreptitiously fixed Fogg's office door handle, after she broke it drunkenly sneaking in to steal a tumblerful of his Lagavulin; she could help him by healing a random muggle and wiping his memories afterwards.

The worst case scenario doesn't happen, though, and Julia and Teddy reappear back downstairs as Eliot emerges from the small bathroom. Eliot's nose has stopped bleeding already which is a good sign. It's really fast for an injury like that, but Quentin isn't going to complain about it.

"I don't suppose you have a spare shirt I could borrow?" Eliot asks, shaking out his hair. Without the nosebleed and gauze gumming up his voice, it's even nicer than Quentin had originally thought. Quentin doesn't have the patience for audiobooks—they're too slow for him to concentrate on—but he might listen to one, if Eliot was the narrator. Eliot is dressed like an actor, maybe he does voice work.

"Yeah, I'm sure there's a spare one of Penny's behind the counter," Julia says, handing Eliot a dish cloth-wrapped bundle. Eliot politely takes it and dabs it against his nose, inclining his head politely at Julia in thanks. She bustles around the counter and rummages, pulling out one of Penny's shirts—he does the least number of shifts in the shop, mostly because his traveling is so useful for Kady's side of the business—and passing it to Quentin, who holds it out to Eliot.

Eliot takes it, smiling at Quentin. "Thanks," Eliot says, and before Quentin can offer the bathroom again, Eliot puts the dish-cloth ice pack onto the chair and whips off his blood-stained tunic.

Quentin almost swallows his tongue and Julia, dammit, sees it. Quentin is about to grab something to clean up—there's blood splatter all the way from the door to the chair, and that's not a good look for a bookshop—when Eliot turns as he pulls the bright orange t-shirt on, and—

Oh. _Oh_. Eliot's calmness over his injury and how clear his nose looks now—not even slightly reddened or swollen now it's clean—suddenly makes sense. Because Quentin knows the tattoo on Eliot's back. And the sudden wariness on Julia's face means she's recognized it too. It's not exactly the same as the one he, Julia, Penny, and Kady have on their backs, their graduation gifts from Brakebills. But it's similar enough for Quentin and Julia to be able to identify it immediately. The trap space is empty, and it looks French in origin, from what Quentin remembers from his demonology classes, but it's definitely a Cacodemon tattoo.

Eliot Waugh is a magician.

Well, it probably shouldn't be a surprise. They get a lot of magicians coming to the shop, for Kady's PI business, or for Quentin's workshop, or for Julia's research. Or for the special section in the basement that's double-locked and warded from floor to ceiling where the magical books are stored. Not many come to the front door without calling, though.

It's… unsettling. Especially with Teddy right there.

Quentin sidles up to Eliot and keeps his voice low. "I recognize the mark on your back." He hates having to warn someone as devastatingly attractive as Eliot, but Quentin's son matters above anything. Teddy's watching them. Quentin feels his anxiety beating like a bird trapped in his chest, scratching at his skin with scrambling, outstretched claws. "We don't mention the m-word during public hours." Eliot still looks blank and Quentin stares at him, right in the eyes. "And _never in front of my son_."

Eliot's eyes widen and he jerks his head. "Right." His eyes don't leave Quentin's. "Got it."

There's something so unreal about this moment, Quentin thinks. Something unsettling. It's almost exactly like the feeling of making magic. The same kind of dizziness. Quentin loves magic, loves the control and the power and the creativity of it. It's a living thing when it's under his fingertips, a thrill that sinks into every atom of his body.

"I, uh, I know this was an accident," Eliot says. The moment snaps, and Quentin can suddenly breathe. He hadn't realized he'd stopped.

Quentin steps away from Eliot, feeling suddenly self-conscious and aware of his own body in a way that feels all too familiar. When Julia looks across at him, he can't quite meet her gaze and he can't explain why. She looks amused.

"Teddy's really sorry," Quentin says, firmly. "He knows he's not supposed to run in the store."

"I really am," Teddy says. "Sorry, I mean. I didn't mean to run. I was overexcited about karate."

"Don't worry about it." Eliot twists his head to look at Teddy. "Karate sounds like a worthwhile distraction. Accidents happen. I probably should have chosen elsewhere to stand and gape like an idiot." He turns back to Quentin with a wry expression. "I got caught on the name of the place, I guess."

Quentin smiles wryly as Eliot looks down at the _Fillory and Further_ that's stretched in neat black print across his chest. The neon orange that looks stupid on Penny actually suits Eliot somehow. It really sets off the dark curls of his hair.

Quentin blinks, realizing Eliot is waiting for an explanation about the shop name. "Yeah, Julia and I love the books. A shared childhood obsession. The Plover estate did a firesale a while back on everything Fillory, so we bought the trademark for a song."

"Oh," Eliot says, his handsome voice going thinner, more unsure. "The Fillory books. Right."

Quentin frowns. That sounds like Eliot's heard of the Fillory books...and he doesn't like them. Well, Quentin considers, someone so attractive who was also a magician had to have _some_ sort of a flaw, beyond standing stock-still at dangerous spots on the sidewalk.

"Were you expecting something else?" Julia asks.

"Actually," Eliot says, and leans in closer to her to whisper, "I was looking for a portal to Fillory. I've been living there for over ten years and I'd like to go back."

Quentin nearly chokes on a mouthful of dry air. Julia's eyebrows rise in unison.

It's so unfair. Eliot is almost unreasonably attractive. Of course he has to be suffering from some sort of psychosis. Assuming, of course, that Eliot had that delusion before he arrived. If his son's hit someone so hard that they're imagining fictional countries are real…maybe Quentin should reconsider Teddy's karate classes.

"Quentin," Julia says, her voice tremulous, "I think you should take Teddy to his class."

"Are you sure?" Quentin hisses. If Eliot's _actually insane_ , he really doesn't want to leave her alone with him.

"I can handle myself," Julia says. "I think we need to make Mr. Waugh sit down and rest after his injury. I can do a concussion check while you get Teddy sorted."

"I don't mind missing practice for one week," Teddy offers, his eyes locked on Eliot's crown with a curious expression.

"We'll be fine," Julia says. She taps the charity coin pot on the main counter with one discreet fingernail. Oh. Penny must be back. Well, if he's lurking around somewhere now, Julia will be okay. "Well, Mr. Waugh, come and take a seat. Let's make extra certain you're not suffering from a concussion, huh?"

"I'm sure I'm fine," Eliot says, but does sit back in the chair. He flashes Quentin a brief glance. Quentin feels weirdly hot when their eyes meet again and he has to look away.

"C'mon, kiddo," Quentin says, deliberately using the term—now that Teddy knows he only uses that when he's serious, he's hoping Teddy won't protest. Teddy looks briefly crestfallen, but picks up his practice bag and trots obligingly toward the door. Quentin eyes him warily and Teddy holds back, letting Quentin open the door. Teddy hunches his shoulders sheepishly when his eyes catch on the blood all over the floor. Eliot might have forgiven him, but Teddy's probably going to feel bad for a while. It makes punishing his kid difficult, when Teddy beats himself up for his own mistakes.

Quentin sighs and gathers an arm around his son, holding him close as they head out the shop. He wishes the Coldwater clumsiness and anxiety had managed to skip a generation. Alas, magic may be real, but wishes don't seem to be.


	3. Eliot

"Okay, Mr. Waugh," the woman says, flipping the open sign on the front door, clicking a latch, and turning to face Eliot with her arms folded over her chest. "Talk."

Eliot blinks at her, tilting his head. "What about?" His gaze catches on his surroundings. Now that he's not...distracted by _Quentin Coldwater,_ whatever kind of name _that_ is, his brain is finally conceding that it should do some work. It's a charming bookstore, with what looks like a mix of new books and second-hand ones. The space is toweringly tall, with chandeliers hanging high from the ceilings. The bookcases are dark oak, with low, stacked islands covered in bright, attractive displays. The islands have recessed panels edged with gold and the walls are painted a rich shade of emerald green. Even the cash register looks charmingly old-fashioned.

"Who you really are and why you're here."

Eliot stares at the woman. She looks like a slip of a thing, rail-thin but deceptively wiry. It's her stance that's fascinating Eliot. She doesn't stand like a woman who could be knocked over by a harsh breeze. She stands like Gillen’s second-in-command, Jollyby, who boasts four hundred pounds of solid muscle and the confidence to back it up.

M-word, Quentin Coldwater had said. Magic is always a secret. Magicians hide in plain sight; it’s a mark of pride among the magical community to stay low-key. But this woman is way too confident _not_ to be a magician. And a powerful one, probably, at that. Eliot will eat his crown if he's wrong.

"Well, first, my name's Eliot," Eliot repeats. He arches an eyebrow. "Which you're very welcome to use. Mr. Waugh was my father."

"I don't use familiar names with strangers."

"He was a homophobic fascist racist who used to beat me with a beer bottle until it broke, then kept punching with it anyway." Eliot beams at her, the smile vastly insincere.

That burst of unexpected and biting truth rattles the woman. She exhales, a pink tinge rising in her cheeks. "Eliot, then," she concedes. "And I'm Julia."

"Ms. Julia?"

Julia rolls her eyes, tossing her stick-straight hair a little. "Just Julia, you ass."

Eliot laughs. Gods, he wasn't expecting to like this fire-cracker, but she already reminds him of Margo. His laughter seems to piss her off more. Well, Eliot supposes, he did inconsiderately bleed all over her shop. "Okay, Just Julia. I was pushed through a portal in Fillory, landed in some random guy's apartment somewhere nearby, nearly got stabbed, and sensibly fled. A woman in the park gave me this address. I thought it might be a lead. I'm trying to get home."

"To _Fillory,_ " Julia repeats, in a skeptical tone, and Eliot resists the urge to sigh.

" _Yes_ ," Eliot says, in a low, hard voice. "Fillory." He's tired, wearier than he thought he'd be. Running from an angry plate-throwing man and searching Central Park for magical portals and getting slammed in the face by a small child with a door really takes it out of a guy. "Charming little insane fantastical country filled with talking animals and an improbably high number of men with spears." It's a weird thing to still be hung up on, Eliot supposes, but he's clinging on to the hope of being back there soon, so he can be annoyed at them again in person. Who the heck takes their spear with them into the _bath?_

"Fillory as in the made-up country by author Christopher Plover," Julia's voice is still hard.

Shit. Eliot's been in Fillory so long that he's forgotten how batshit loopy it must sound to claim that it actually exists. He tries to rewind himself ten years, when Fillory was new and weird to him too. No wonder this Julia is staring at him like he's lost his mind.

Eliot inhales and exhales and stares up at her. "Fillory as in, we suspect that Christopher Plover must have stumbled through a portal like we did, before coming back and writing about it."

Julia's eyebrows knot. "Q's gonna be back soon. But I gotta tell you, I'm still thinking hard about calling in a particular brand of doctor for you."

Eliot looks pointedly at the blood trail still on the floor. "You don't think they'd find this scene suspicious?"

Julia stares at him flatly for a moment and then deliberately crosses the floor and lowers the shades, hitting a switch once the windows are covered. The charming bookstore changes under the artificial light from the chandeliers. The way the shadows throw every piece of furniture into sharp relief reminds Eliot suddenly of Brakebills. He can't quite shake the idea that if he looks closely at the green rugs over the wooden floor or the shades, he might see the faint repeating pattern of a key-and-bee.

Julia moves to stand in front of him, double-checks that the shades are closed, inhales and exhales once, and then, faster than he's seen anyone even attempt it, smoothly runs Amelia Popper's seventh, twelfth, and thirty-second exercises into each other, magically cleaning the blood from the floor. That level of magical expertise explains her confidence.

"So, you're a magician," Eliot says, meeting her gaze. "You can truth potion me, if you like."

Julia blinks several times in a row. "That'll just prove _you_ believe it's true."

"Which will at least prove to you I'm either genuinely psychotic _or_ telling the truth." Eliot shrugs as elegantly as he can, which he personally feels is an action diluted by the neon orange shirt he's now wearing. Still, it's better than wearing his own blood. And he doesn't mind the idea of going back to Fillory with his kingdom's name across his chest. "Which answer is more fun to think about?"

Julia hides it very quickly, but for a moment, there was a brief smile on her face. Eliot doesn't blame her. He is very charming. He was already good at it at school and being a king has made him work avidly on bettering that quality. Especially considering that’s all he does in Fillory.

"I'm not leaving you alone to go fetch it, if _that's_ what you were thinking," Julia says.

Eliot lets his true confusion show for that one. "It never even crossed my mind."

Julia makes a disgruntled noise and holds up her hands with another few practiced, easy gestures—she's examining him for anything magical. She frowns as she squints through her thumbs and forefingers, twisted into a rectangle; an analytical viewing area. It takes differently charmed pieces of glass to be more specific, but it's good enough for basics, which is why Eliot was using a slight variation on the same spell to look for a portal to Fillory.

"There's something unusual about you," Julia says, but Eliot thinks she's speaking more to herself than to him. "Traces of—unusual magical signatures."

Eliot answers anyway. "Fillory is soaked in different magic than here. There's more wild magic there. And there's opium in the air."

That causes Julia to move her gaze away from her spell. "Opium?"

"It's less than two tenths of a percent. But what an unfair way to make you love a place, huh?"

"Well, that's not in the Fillory books," Julia says.

"Wouldn't know." Eliot shrugs a shoulder. "Never read them."

Julia brings her fingers back up, looking at him from different angles. "That's very difficult to believe, considering."

"Fantasy novels are for nerds." Eliot's mouth curls. "I've never been a nerd."

"Whatever you say, buddy."

Eliot looks up at her, starting to feel frustration settle into him, like an ache in every single one of his joints. Or maybe it's the events of the day finally catching up to him.

"I'd prove it to you right now if I could," Eliot sighs.

The front door handle jiggles before Julia can say something biting in return. Before Julia can move toward the door, probably to yell that it's closed, it clicks open—someone with the key, apparently—and Eliot can't stop the reflexive smile when he recognizes the person slipping into the room.

Quentin Coldwater.

There's just something about the sight of him that _settles_ Eliot. He can't explain it. Like Julia had sucked the oxygen out of the room by pulling the shades down, and Quentin has brought the air back in with him.

Eliot knows he's staring. He can't help himself. Quentin's…lovely. He thinks of Teddy with a pang. Quentin and Julia's son is cute, and the way Quentin and Julia react to each other… Even if this situation was less weird and Eliot was in a position where he _could_ attempt a seduction, there's something solid about Quentin and Julia's dynamic. He doesn't think Quentin is available to be wooed.

Oh, Eliot thinks, his eyes catching on Quentin's strong shoulders and confident hands and solid physique, but he'd have such fun _trying_.

"I wasn't expecting you back so quickly," Julia mutters, as Quentin latches the door closed again.

"I ran," Quentin admits, which explains the ruddiness in his cheeks. His shoulder-length hair is tied back in a bun, damp tendrils stuck to his forehead. "It wasn't until I was dropping Teddy off that I realized something."

"Oh?"

" _Eliot Waugh._ " Quentin gestures in Eliot's direction, a frenetic hand movement that Eliot tracks with his eyes. It's such a pity he's taken. Still, Eliot reflects hazily, a man can _dream_ and Quentin Coldwater's definitely a worthy candidate to join Eliot's mental spank bank.

Especially the way his voice sounds saying Eliot's name.

Except, Quentin said it like he _knows_ something about Eliot. Eliot tenses up warily. Damn his libido, getting distracted by Quentin's entrancing, confident fingers.

"I don't—" Julia starts, looking confused. Then understand dawns. "You don't think—"

"—he's _that_ Eliot Waugh?" Quentin says. "Yeah. Yeah, I do."

Eliot coughs loudly until they both look at him. He likes being talked about, but not like he's not even there. " _Which_ Eliot Waugh do you think I am?"

Quentin steps around Julia and folds his arms, grinning at Eliot almost challengingly. "The Eliot Waugh who, on being expelled from Brakebills, enchanted all the school's topiary animals to run riot through the hallways?" He looks at Julia, one of those small, intimate, knowing glances that makes Eliot want to cry about how patently unavailable Quentin is. "Remember? By the time we got there, there were _still_ random curtains you could shake and find angry little leaves in."

"Shit," Julia breathes and looks at Eliot like she hasn't spent ages glaring at him suspiciously. Her eyes widen. "You're right. Yeah. He _is_ that Eliot Waugh—I did some archiving for Fogg during second-year and the photographs in that file— Jesus. It _is_ you." She stares at Eliot in renewed fascination. "You and Margo Hanson were _legendary._ Inseparable partners-in-crime, according to Brakebills rumor mill. I thought they mindwiped students who flunked out."

Eliot grins, his ego nicely plumped at the idea of his Brakebills exit flight being so remarkably memorable. "Only if they can catch you." He snorts and ruins the drama by admitting, "Plus, Margo and I got accepted almost immediately by _Château de Peyrelade_ after the incident. _They_ don't mind an occasional...recreational incident. The Magicians Court allows inter-school transfers without resorting to such gauche strategies as a _mindwipe_."

Quentin tilts his head. "The rumors said you were high on something and did a naked recreation of Dirty Dancing in one of Professor March's Minor Mending seminars?"

"The rumors are _grossly_ exaggerated," Eliot lies, because, yes, he may have done that too. "We actually got suspended because I got stormingly drunk and stole half the shit out of March's lab during a Cottage party gone wrong, and when the staff yelled at me, Margo stood by my side and called them all festering asswipes." He smiles fondly in remembrance of the incident. "March was _furious._ "

"I bet," Julia says. "He still prefaces every lecture with a five-minute warning about the wards he has on his personal lab."

Eliot hums in satisfaction. "Ah, my legacy is true beauty, then. I'm pleased. I thought I'd go my whole life without discovering if I'd left any impact on the place."

"Because _you_ think you've been in Fillory," Julia says.

The light atmosphere that had been developing almost immediately quietens. "Yes," Eliot says, in a somber tone. "Because I _have_."

"Yeah, but what do you mean by that?" Quentin asks. "Metaphorically? Drug trip? In your imagination?"

Eliot looks at Quentin challengingly. "Physically."

"He wants us to dose him up with Truth Potion," Julia rolls her eyes. "All that'll prove is that he's insane."

"Kady might have some in stock already," Quentin says.

"Penny might know." Julia looks up at the ceiling. "He's upstairs."

"Where's Kady?"

"Still out chasing down a lead, I think." Julia's mouth quirks. "You don't have to be scared of Penny."

"I'm not scared," Quentin mumbles. "I just prefer dealing with him when I have emotional protection."

"Josh is upstairs too. Asleep, but I'm sure he'll wake up quickly if you say you're planning to cook something." Julia glances at Eliot. "Quentin's a terrible cook. It gives Josh hives."

"Josh," Eliot repeats with a frown, like he's expected to know the name. He knew _one_ Josh at Brakebills, but he was a Natural student that kept mostly to himself.

"Yeah, he's—" Quentin starts, looking somewhat eager to avoid leaving to go look for Penny, whoever that is.

A banging at the door jolts all of their attention.

"Jules, it's me, let me in," a woman's voice yells. "Why are we locked at this hour, babe?"

"Oh, shit," Julia breathes, and skids to the door, quickly flipping open the latch.

The woman that bustles in is, from Eliot's perspective, possibly an actual tornado of energy. Eliot can only describe his first impression of her as _energetic._ Her hair is a curling, dark waterfall and she's beautiful, in the way a thunderstorm might be called pretty.

"You gonna catch me up or what?" Kady glances at Quentin like it's all his fault the shop was shut. Eliot supposes as it was Quentin's son that hit him, it is Quentin's fault. Tangentially.

"Hey, Kady," Quentin says, smiling weakly at the new arrival, in a way that screams _I know this person and I like them but I'm also kinda scared of them too._ "Uh, Teddy had an accident and kind of—" Quentin gestures with those lovely hands of his, "—injured a customer?"

Kady frowns at Quentin and jerks to look at Eliot, and before Eliot can say anything, she scowls like she's tasted something unpleasant.

"So then why the fuck," Kady says, loudly, "is Eliot Waugh sitting in our bookstore?"

"You know who I am," Eliot says, numbly, frowning at Kady, because he feels like he would remember someone like her.

"No shit, Sherlock," Kady says.

"He's possibly lost his mind," Julia offers.

"Teddy hit him with the front door," Quentin says, at the same time.

Eliot stares at Kady in confusion. The more he looks at her, the more familiar she seems. He tries to think when he might have encountered that level of sheer energy before, other than when he’d been holed up in a room with Margo on election night. A hazy memory finally slides into place, like a key fitting into a lock.

"I remember you," Eliot squints at Kady and nods, satisfied he has his answer. "The Juniors International Welters Tournament. The year the finals were held in Tasmania. You were in the audience." Eliot narrows his eyes accusingly. "You called me a cocksucker for nearly breaking your girlfriend's leg with the globe."

" _Fuck._ " Julia's outburst is so loud all three of them turn to stare at her. Julia colors sheepishly, and then glares at Eliot. "That was _you_ that nearly hit me?"

Today is fated to be stuffed with surprises, apparently. Eliot switches his stare to Julia. "That was _you?_ " His brain reluctantly works on providing more details. The final had been against some really annoying Knowledge students from...Brakebills University of Magical Pedagogy. Fuck. What a fucking small world. "Wow. Yeah. That was probably me. Sorry about that." He wiggles one hand. "They wouldn't let me use my telekinesis to throw the globe and I'm a bad aim."

Quentin blinks. "Wait, so, you three know each other?"

Julia turns to Quentin, her mouth scrunched up. "You don't remember that? You were _there_."

"Um," Quentin says, not quite meeting Julia's eyes, "I was in the stands, sure, but I wasn't really paying attention." He grimaces apologetically. "I probably had my head in a book, sorry. Welters was never really my thing."

"It _might_ have been if we could have scrounged enough Physical Kids to make a team," Kady sniffs, the rhythm of her words easy, like this is an old argument. She eyes Eliot. "If you and Hanson hadn't got expelled, we could have had the numbers."

Eliot considers that. He'd have been a year or so ahead of Kady, but the timing worked out.

"We'd still have been one short," Quentin says. "Even _if_ you could have lured me out to play."

"I would have lured you out to play by your toes, Coldwater," Kady rolls her eyes.

"So _you_ two at least were both Physical kids," Eliot hums. "Nice. I hope you treated the Cottage well while you were there."

"Better than you apparently did," Kady says.

Eliot huffs. "You called me a cocksucker, I don't see where you get off being this judgmental."

Kady arches an eyebrow. "Was I wrong?"

Eliot presses his mouth together. "No," he allows, and Kady smirks. Eliot considers the last few minutes, confused. "So Julia was your girlfriend and now she's Quentin's wife?" He gestures at Kady, realizing she also has a _Fillory and Further_ shirt on. "And you work together now? Isn't that weird?"

His last question is muffled, by Julia and Kady suddenly bursting into laughter.

"Oh, man, that's hilarious," Julia wheezes, and Kady moves over to Julia, sliding a possessive hand around her waist.

Quentin shuffles and makes a vain gesture with his hand, like he's trying to get his hair to cover his face and he's forgotten it's tied back. "It's not _that_ preposterous," Quentin says. "Don't I look like I could be your husband, Jules?"

Julia tips her head back and laughs. Eliot watches warily, but it does seem like Quentin's taking it on the chin, like this is an old joke between friends. Gods, he hopes it is. He already feels weirdly protective of Quentin Coldwater. He wishes he could say he remembers seeing him before. It feels odd, knowing they've been in the same room before. He can picture it in his mind's eye—Kady launching herself from the stands to yell at him for nearly breaking Julia's leg with a wild misthrow of the heavy Welters globe, and somewhere behind her, Quentin, his head bent over a book, his brown hair a thick curtain shielding him from view. Eliot would have stared up at the sight of him longingly, had he noticed him, wondering why such a beautiful man thought he had to hide from the world. Wondering what it would take to coax him out.

"Julia's _still_ my girlfriend," Kady says.

"So Teddy isn't your son," Eliot says, directing that question at Julia.

"Honestly, I wish," Julia admits, throwing a soft smile Quentin's way. "Alas, I'm merely a kick-ass Aunt."

"Teddy's mom isn't in the picture," Quentin says, in that soft, lovely voice of his. There's a note of pain in those words and Eliot feels bad for bringing up the subject. Even if he's also feeling buoyant because maybe Quentin's available after all? Eliot tries to dismiss the thought immediately, because there's no way someone so attractive is single.

"I still think I need to finish checking whether Eliot has a concussion," Julia says.

"Because Teddy hit him with the door," Kady says, slowly, like she can't believe it.

"Right in the face," Julia confirms.

"Hard enough that we had a quart of blood on the floor," Quentin says.

"Shit, man." Kady glances at Eliot again, speculatively.

"Hard enough that he thinks he's landed here from Fillory," Julia adds.

Kady's face screws up. "But we're _in_ Fillory."

"Not the name of our shop, babe," Julia says, puffing out her cheeks. _"Fillory_ Fillory. Fictional Fillory."

"Maybe I ought to be going," Eliot says, slowly. He feels stupid that he thought these people would believe him. He can hear his own voice in his memories, leaning in close to Quentin to say he was looking for a portal to Fillory. What a prime idiot. He doesn't know what he was thinking. He probably wasn't thinking at all. The collision had made Eliot dizzy, and despite his best self-healing tuts, his dizziness had continued afterward.

Mostly because of the close presence of Quentin Coldwater.

It's ridiculous. Eliot is _never_ this affected by a guy, no matter how pretty he is, or how fetchingly his mouth curves into a shy smile, or how attractively his hands move. Shit. Maybe he _does_ have a concussion.

"I can do some of the basic checks," Quentin mumbles. "I'm the only one of us who took Lipson's healing minor. We might need her if anything shows up in them, though."

"I'll give her a call. See if she feels up to a home visit." Julia's mouth lifts at one edge. "I have a spare bottle of Bailey's we haven't opened yet. Bet I could lure her here with that."

"The tuts take at least an hour to go through, though. And that's if I pull them off first try." Quentin's lovely mouth turns down at the edges. "I've gotta get Teddy in forty minutes—"

"Oh, it's Thursday," Kady interrupts. "I'm on the approved list. I can swing by and pick him up. Did you have specific dinner plans?"

"Not really," Quentin admits, his eyes roving, like he's embarrassed about it. "I thought I'd let Teddy choose."

"I only asked because Josh is probably gonna end up making buttloads of stress pasta after his nap," Kady says, with a tight expression. "Lovelady was being a dick again."

"I don't know how you can bear working with him," Julia mutters, sotto voce.

"Better the dick you know," Kady shrugs. "I'll go fetch Ted, bring him upstairs via the back."

"Thanks," Quentin murmurs, already focusing on Eliot and shaking out his hands.

Eliot squints up at them. "Don't I have a choice in this?" He thinks longingly of futilely sweeping the park again, or trying to use a locator spell to find the apartment he landed in, and even more longingly of Margo. She must be worrying by now. Maybe she's already looking for him. That thought cheers him up. She has enough of his possessions to be able to retrace his steps, find the portal, force it open and find him here.

"You wanna risk stumbling out into New York with a concussion or a brain-aneurysm and die in the gutter, be my guest," Quentin says.

Eliot stares at Quentin, feeling softly betrayed by the fact this beautiful man is also a _little shit._ And also feeling a little bit turned on by it, too.

"Maybe I'll stay here and let you work your magic," Eliot sighs.

Quentin beams, looking extremely satisfied.

* * *

Kady slips out half an hour later to go fetch Teddy and Julia reluctantly goes upstairs to see if Josh is awake and willing to start cooking, leaving Quentin and Eliot on their own. It's probably not a coincidence that a few minutes later, Eliot gets to meet the _Penny_ that has been mentioned a couple of times.

"Hey Penny," Quentin says.

Eliot might be staring. _That's_ Penny? Eliot had been so focused on watching Quentin's fingers that he hadn't even noticed him come into the room. Penny's not a woman, like Eliot was imagining, but a pretty damn hot guy with well-defined muscles, fierce eyes, and a very adequate butt that Eliot can't help admiring for a moment. It's maybe not as nice as Quentin's, but it's definitely not a butt to complain about, in Eliot's humble opinion.

"Did you blip in?" Quentin narrows his eyes at Penny suddenly. "Jesus, man, my kid—"

"—was in the bathroom, I'm not an idiot." Penny rolls his eyes. He side-glances at Eliot, realizing Eliot's staring at him. "Nice crown," Penny says, looking down at him with undisguised distrust.

"Thanks," Eliot says. "I'm a King."

Eliot faintly registers Quentin frowning at that.

"Teddy's getting anxious to see you," Penny says, his gaze on Quentin but shifting periodically to Eliot. "Don't be terrible and take too long."

"I won't be much longer," Quentin promises.

"Whatever, I'm just the messenger," Penny says, and then _disappears._

Eliot blinks several times. What the fuck?

"Penny's a Traveler," Quentin says, correctly interpreting the confusion on Eliot's face. When Eliot's confusion continues, Quentin frowns. "It's a rare Psychic Discipline. It's _incredibly_ rare. He can travel anywhere in a blip. Like the transporter on Star Trek." Quentin's eyes brighten excitedly as he talks. He really is a nerd. Jesus. What a discovery. And Eliot was _already_ attracted to him. "There are tattoos on his hands which let him take other people with him."

Oh, right, they were talking about Penny. "So he might be able to take me home," Eliot says.

"Well, if you could convince him to, maybe. But only if he's been there before, or he has someone to follow. Sorry. I know you must want to go home." Quentin's voice catches. "Wherever that is."

Eliot wants to insist it really is Fillory, but there's something painful about the tension on Quentin's face. Fillory's obviously important to him and Julia, if their store is named after it. He was surprised to find out that Fillory was real—Margo often talked about the books in a reverent whisper at Peyrelade whenever she was missing America and overwhelmed by having to live in France and needed to think about something familiar and safe—but Fillory had never meant much to him beforehand.

He wonders how Margo felt, being a fan and discovering it was real. She's never really talked about it. While Eliot's emotions are free game with Margo, her own have to be pushed away at all costs. Not because she doesn't feel anything, but because she feels everything too damn much. Margo Hanson is a powder keg of emotion and talent and Eliot misses her _fiercely._

"You should go upstairs and see your son," Eliot says. "Not be down here bothering with me. I'll be fine."

"I'll be the judge of that," Quentin says, holding up his hands and starting to run through another complex tut, his eyebrows knotting adorably. When it's over, Quentin shakes his hands out like they're wet and he's trying to dry them, and he leans back against the main counter. "You _are_ a Physical magician, right?" He grimaces apologetically. "I need to know what your Discipline is for the next run of checks."

"Definitely a Physical magician," Eliot says. His eyes linger on Quentin's neck, the brief glimpse of collarbone peeking from that fetchingly bright pink t-shirt he's wearing. "I've always enjoyed being physical."

"Um," Quentin says, licking his lips, obviously affected by Eliot's clumsy flirting; he wrings his hands and then self-consciously pushes at the loose pieces of his hair that have escaped his messy bun. He runs his palms over his jeans in a way he probably thinks is surreptitious. Either the magic or Eliot's words have made Quentin's hands sweaty. As much as he's enjoying watching the tutting, Quentin's fingers rapidly becoming Eliot's newest favorite thing in the multiverse, Eliot privately hopes it's the latter. "And your Discipline itself?"

Oh, right. "Telekinesis," Eliot says. He brings up his hand, lazily gestures; some of Quentin's loose hairs move away from his face, gently moving behind his ears.

"Wow," Quentin says. "Uh. Great. That's, uh, completely great."

Eliot smiles, completely enchanted by Quentin's stuttering. "And yourself?"

"Pardon me?"

"It's rude to make a guy tell you his Discipline and not share your own." Eliot leans back in the chair, widens his legs, and is gratified to see Quentin's eyes track that movement, like he can't help himself.

"Oh, it's not that impressive—Repair of Small Objects," Quentin says. He looks embarrassed. "I know it's not flashy—"

" _Au contraire_ , I love the mending Disciplines," Eliot interrupts. He's suddenly, passionately sure that the last thing he wants to hear in this life is Quentin putting himself down. Christ, he's known this man for barely an hour, Eliot hasn’t been so protective about anyone since… since he met Margo, he supposes. Huh. That's...certainly a whole-ass thought to think about. "Everything breaks in life. _Everything._ The idea that it doesn't have to be _permanent_ for everything is something I find very soothing."

"I guess I've never thought about it like that," Quentin mumbles. He shyly meets Eliot's gaze. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome, Quentin Coldwater."

Quentin's cheeks go delightfully pink and he continues confidently moving his hands.

Now that Eliot knows Quentin's kid is home and anxious to see his dad, he feels guilty for taking up Quentin's time. He's probably fine. He could get up now and run for it; he doesn't think Quentin would stop him. Eliot feels okay, albeit fatigued and maybe still a bit dizzy. Honestly, he might just be hungry. When Eliot's stomach growls, loud enough for them both to hear, Eliot winces.

"If nothing turns up in the next ten minutes, I can get Josh to bring you some food before you go," Quentin says, flashing Eliot a brief smile. "There's a few more checks I have to do."

Eliot frowns. "Anything turn up so far?"

"Well, I'm working from memory as best I can, and there might be better spells—all I can do right now is rule some things out. And you have to go in order, because otherwise if you miss one of the early steps, you can still be there four hours and have missed something as basic as, like, _tinnitus_ , and it's really important to get that right, it's why Healing is one of the most difficult Disciplines, and honestly, it's vastly overlooked, not many people appreciate the subtle tuts or the sheer amount of information Healing students have to retain and operate on a daily basis, and—" Quentin abruptly stops talking and he grimaces. "Sorry, you didn't ask for all that. I'm a rambler."

"I like your rambling," Eliot says.

Quentin rolls his eyes. "Sure you do."

Eliot frowns. "I'm not in the habit of letting random strangers call me a liar. However cute they are."

Quentin's face does something complicated, and his fingers falter where they are, half-outstretched, readying to do another series of tuts. "Huh?"

Eliot leans forward in the chair, making sure to stare at Quentin until he's sure Quentin is returning the gaze. Quentin's obviously not used to that kind of attention and he makes an awkward gesture to try and cover his face with his hair again, failing because it's still tied-up.

"I don't know how many people have made you think that being passionate about things is something you have to hide," Eliot says. "But they were wrong to ever make you feel bad about it. I was genuinely enjoying hearing you talk. Intimating I was only placating you boils down to you essentially calling me a liar. I may be slightly unbelievable, but I'm not a liar. Not when it comes to the important things in life."

"So you do lie sometimes," Quentin says, in a small voice. He's still looking at Eliot, but jittery, like he might blow away if Eliot breathes too hard.

"Well," Eliot says, grimacing, "I don't like having to _admit_ to strangers that I did the Patrick Swayze dance buck-ass nude in the middle of a class. In my defense, I shoved the brownie Hoberman gave me fully into my mouth before he had time to explain it was a special one and I only needed to nibble the corner, not down the whole thing."

"Oh, so you know Josh too," Quentin says. He's smiling now. It's such a nice smile that Eliot doesn't even feel too bad that he had to admit something embarrassing to bring it out of him. Besides, if Julia's _not_ Quentin's life partner after all, then… maybe Eliot's _allowed_ to want to try and make him smile.

"The Josh upstairs is Josh _Hoberman_?" Eliot's eyebrows rise. "How goddamned small is this planet anyway?"

"It's about a trillion cubic kilometers," Quentin says instantly, and Jesus, why is Eliot so charmed by that? Quentin notices Eliot's grin and an interesting flush creeps across Quentin's cheeks. "I have a kid. He had a space phase."

"Had?"

"Ah, it's dinosaurs now." Quentin's mouth wrinkles. "And dragons, apparently."

"Dragons are dicks," Eliot says earnestly, because there used to one that lived in the basement of Château de Peyrelade. It's probably still there, continuing its miserable existence as a giant massive cryptic asshole.

"Let's finish this off and see if we can get you home, okay?"

Eliot nods, pulling a face but leaning amenably back in the chair so Quentin can continue his checks. He wants to know more about Quentin, and his dragon-loving son, but there's no need for him. What he needs is to let Quentin check him for a concussion, and then Eliot can resume getting home to Fillory.

There's a chance he could retrace his and Margo's original steps to Fillory. Perhaps their old portal from Peyrelade to that charming pub in England would still be easy enough to activate? There has to be an international portal from New York to Paris that Eliot could use. But that would take a few days to organize. Eliot's best, quickest option is probably to retrace his steps and see if he can re-open the portal in the apartment of that asshole who waved a knife at him. He probably should have read the books instead of relying on Margo's cliff notes. What did she say the other portals looked like? A tapestry, maybe. Or a painting. A police phone box? There are options, if he isn't actually bleeding out from the brain.

There's a clattering noise and Quentin immediately puts his hands down, leaning against the counter and folding his arms. Eliot's heart leaps. He's so used to being able to do magic whenever he wants, he doesn't know how hard it must be to not even do small acts of magic in fear of your own child seeing. Hiding it from the public, yes, the Magicians Court mandates that, but the legislation doesn't stop you from letting your kids know, not when they're born into a magical family.

Maybe the law has changed. Eliot hasn't been to Earth for a long time. He wonders whether he has time to have a cocktail or a Coca-Cola or some proper actual New York pizza before he goes back. Margo would be so jealous.

But it’s not Teddy— Julia and Penny are back, Penny entering the normal way instead of using his magical vanishing Discipline.

"Kady and Josh are making dinner with Ted," Julia says to Quentin when they come in. She glances briefly at Eliot. "How's it going?"

"Nearly done, but… the last check… I'm not sure," Quentin admits. "Honestly, I'm out of my depth here. Ideally I'd like to try them again in the morning—"

"Lipson says she can come by at nine am," Julia nods. "Could be a plan."

"I guess I can come back," Eliot says. "I know where you are now."

Quentin locks Eliot with an unreadable expression. "So you have somewhere to stay?"

"Well, no—"

"You're still potentially concussed," Quentin says. "We can't just let you out on the street. It's probably getting too dark to, uh, find your portal." He still obviously can't bring himself to say _Fillory_ out loud like it's an actual possibility.

"Then I'll sleep on a bench." Eliot shrugs. "Or I'll hit up an ATM and find a hotel—" There's a spell. Maybe he can remember it.

"You should stay here." Quentin's chin tenses mulishly.

Julia and Penny share an obviously unhappy look.

"Q—" Julia starts.

"Teddy's the one who hurt him." Quentin's voice is getting louder. "I feel responsible for that. I mean. Maybe he's crazy, but, I feel really responsible, and he's from _Brakebills_ , he's one of us—"

Apparently Quentin and Julia are going to argue like Eliot and Penny aren't even there. Penny throws Eliot an oddly reassuring resigned look, a shared moment of unity amid the mild tension, which from Penny's reaction is probably a common incident.

"So we can send him to Brakebills," Julia interrupts. "I'm sure Fogg—"

"—will have forgotten about the topiary incident? How sure are we that Fogg won't wipe his memories and throw him back on the street—"

"Fogg isn't _that_ crazy. And maybe if the punishment was deserved, then—"

"But Eliot wouldn't have hypothetically risked being belatedly punished if it wasn't for my son hurtling into the door."

"You can't take responsibility for every little incident, Quentin—"

Quentin's arms tighten across his chest. "Lipson will be here in the morning. We can handle having a guest for that long. He can stay in my apartment. Teddy and I can sleep up in the penthouse. You guys can pretend to be muggles up there for _one_ night."

"That's a lot of effort for one potentially crazy person."

Eliot can't say he likes being called potentially crazy. Especially when he knows he's not. "I don't want to be an imposition," he interrupts. " _Especially_ on people who think I'm insane. I'm still happy to take a truth potion, if that'll settle things on _that_ score."

Julia rolls her eyes.

"What about the spell you were working on?" Penny looks over at Julia.

Julia blinks, looking startled. "Which spell?"

"The Harry Potter one," Penny says. "I don't know. I tune out whenever you start blathering on about Ravendorks or Huffling, or whatever shit that is."

"It's nice to know you're supportive of my interests, babe," Julia says, but she's grinning, so it's another of those _I'm going to pretend to be mad but it's cute_ jokes this friendship group seems to be fond of. Eliot's not a fan of them himself. He and Margo are glamorous mega bitches but they're always clear about when they are and when they're not. This blurry, in-between, comedic meanness isn't his style. Well, if it works for them, who is Eliot to judge? He's a King in Fillory, but here on Earth he's nothing but a bad memory mixed with a dubious legacy of anarchic failure.

"The one I thought was a food spell," Penny says.

" _Oh_ , the pensieve spell," Julia says, snapping her fingers in recognition. "It's a possibility." At Eliot's confusion, she explains. "I'm a Knowledge kid. Meta-composition. My Discipline lets me combine spells together. I've been working with Penny and a couple of Illusion and Healing graduates to find a way to use magic to aid patients with dementia, and—"

"You're working on a way to pull memories out of people's minds so they can see them," Eliot surmises.

Julia's eyebrows raise. "I thought you said fantasy novels were for nerds."

Quentin narrows his eyes—oh, he hadn't been present for that part of Eliot and Julia's conversation. Eliot tries not to wince.

"I know Harry Potter," Eliot rolls his eyes. "Mediocre movies, but handy terminology, I guess."

Julia mouths the word _movies_ like it's offended her personally somehow.

"The only safe version I have of it so far can pull a single image out of someone's mind," Julia says, slowly. Like she can't believe she's going to so much effort for someone. Eliot gets the impression it's for Quentin's sake, rather than for Eliot. "Do you have a specific memory of a single location that you think could convince us? No other senses, only sight."

Eliot thinks about when he and Margo stumbled out of the forest to the edge of the lake and caught a glimpse of Castle Whitespire for the first time. "Yeah," he says, softly. "Yeah, I have something."

Quentin disappears with Julia, probably to go say hi to his kid, leaving Eliot with Penny, who doesn't chat like the others did; instead, he grunts and picks up one of the books nearby, leafing through it idly.

Eliot clears his throat and looks at him. "So you're a Traveler, huh?"

Penny grunts.

"I guess that's interesting," Eliot adds.

Penny grunts again.

"Nice talk," Eliot concludes.

Penny ignores him. Well. That seems about right. Strong but silent suits him.

Julia and Quentin re-appear ten minutes later, carrying an armful of items between them. Eliot watches with interest as Penny lays crystals around the room while Julia takes a piece of chalk and marks a circle around him. Quentin keeps an eye on the door, still hyper aware of his son being in the building. His nervousness makes sense, kids don't always stay where they're supposed to, and it's one thing talking about magic and being able to explain it away as chatting about Harry Potter, and another doing big showy spells.

At least, Eliot's getting the impression that this is going to be a big showy spell.

Julia approaches him with a pot in her hand. "May I?" she says.

Eliot watches as she opens it to reveal a dark paste. Is she going to ask him to eat it? "May you _what_?"

"It's a blend of charcoal, a non-toxic pigment, and lavender. Focuses the magic, accesses the right memory centers in your brain." Julia holds it closer; Eliot can smell the lavender now. "I'm going to paint it on your face. It'll come right off."

Eliot nods and lets her paint his face, trying not to think about how much he wishes Quentin was the one applying it.

Julia steps back, wipes her hand on a rag Penny hands her, and then holds up her hands, starting to chant in Sumerian. Eliot can pick out a few words in her spell. _Mind, yesterday_ , _focus._

"You need to close your eyes," Penny says. His voice isn't as nice as Quentin's, but it's low and soothing in a different way. "Focus on the image, hold your memory of seeing it in your mind's eye."

Whitespire. Castle Whitespire. Margo's hand had been in his, small and cold. They had been stumbling through this fantasy forest for hours, which Eliot would later learn was the Wormwood. A bug with a crossbow from the Nameless Mountains shot at them. A naiad laughed at them when they stumbled onto her stream. And then they emerged from the trees on the edge of the Silver Banks and caught sight of the castle, rising up on the opposite shore, the white spinning towers glinting in the sunlight.

"Oh, my god," Quentin's beautiful voice cuts through the silence that Eliot hadn't noticed falling, Julia's spell finished. "Oh my _god._ "

"You can open your eyes now," Julia says, sounding shaken, and Eliot does, and his breath catches in his throat. They're no longer in the bookstore. They're on the Silver Banks and Whitespire's in the distance and Eliot's _home—_

"That's Whitespire," Quentin says, moving closer to them, his eyes wide and shining. "Jules, are you fucking seeing this."

"Yeah," Julia's voice cracks. "Yeah, I'm fucking seeing this."

"Still doesn't mean it's actually _Fillory,_ " Penny says, making a valiant attempt to sound reasonable. "Could be some other fantastical kingdom with a—"

"—shining, white, castle with spinning towers?" Quentin finishes for him.

For all that Julia said this would be a single image, it is moving, Whitespire's towers rotating grandly and glinting magnificently in the sunlight.

"The dwarf clockwork _is_ nice to look at, but I don't recommend sitting for too long in a spinning throne room," Eliot says. "It can give one a little dose of… _mal der mer._ "

"You can just say seasickness, you dick," Penny says, but it's hard to take his brusqueness seriously when he's staring at Castle Whitespire like he's never seen something so beautiful.

Quentin looks overwhelmed. There might even be tears in his eyes. "Fillory," he says to Julia, three simple syllables that somehow carry so much meaning.

"I can't hold it," Julia says, and Quentin nods, looking briefly grief-stricken. Julia waves her hands and Whitespire disappears, replaced again by the bookstore, which seems darker and smaller in the aftermath. Almost oppressive. Julia looks Eliot in the eyes. "I'm sorry I didn't believe you. Fucking Fillory, man. That has to be a story and a half."

"Yeah," Eliot smiles, "yeah, it is."

"But you'll stay," Quentin says. His eyes still seem suspiciously moist, but he's smiling as Penny and Julia quickly wipe up the detritus of the spell. "You'll stay until the morning, at least, until Lipson can check you out?"

"Of course," Eliot says. "Thank you."

"If you promise not to mention magic you can eat dinner with us up in the penthouse," Julia says, patting Eliot tentatively on the shoulder.

"You probably want to. It's dangerous to eat anything Q has lying around his apartment," Penny adds.

"Hey, I keep healthy stuff around for my kid," Quentin defends.

"Exactly," Penny grins at Eliot. "Sawdust and fruit and shit."

"I do prefer not to eat shit if I can help it," Eliot says, quirking a smile back at Penny as Quentin starts to exclaim loudly and defend himself. Eliot has not had the best day, it's been downright unlucky if he's being honest, but...it seems like maybe his luck is starting to change.

"It's funny, though," Julia says to Quentin, as she stashes the basket of crystals under the counter, "that we're getting a random stranger to dinner before your _girlfriend._ "

"Oh my god," Quentin whines, immediately, "give me some time. Alice and I are taking it slow."

Eliot sighs. Quentin has a girlfriend. Of _course_ he does. He's lovely. And Eliot's going back to Fillory. There's no need for him to feel quite so disappointed.

But he is. He _is_ disappointed that Quentin isn't single. Margo should still be proud of him, though. She'd lectured him about _thinking_ about dating someone, not about actually dating. Of course, even if Quentin _had_ been single, Quentin's on Earth and is going to stay here with his son, while Eliot is planning on going back to Fillory ASAP. But… he can now honestly tell Margo he spent time thinking about it. Yay for personal growth.


	4. Quentin

When Quentin wakes up, he almost panics, because everything is wrong and unfamiliar. The light is hitting his face in a way that he's not used to, and his back is whining at him like it's gear box with a handful of sand chucked into it. He also seems to have an armful of his son, which isn't a common morning occurrence. It's nice when it happens, but Teddy's been able to sleep through the night in his own bed for years; he tends to climb into Quentin's bed only for special events like Christmas morning, or if he has a karate competition the next day, or if he's had a bad nightmare.

And then he remembers—they're in the Penthouse. Because—someone is using his apartment. Teddy's up here with him for safety reasons. Eliot Waugh. The door. The blood. The cacodemon tattoo on Eliot's back. _Fillory._

Quentin's head hurts. He manages to extract an arm from the quilt Julia draped over them last night and he rubs at his temples. Jesus. He doesn't remember drinking last night. He took his meds on schedule. He maybe _did_ eat more pasta than a single person should ever attempt, because Josh really _had_ been stress cooking, but this headache was more than a simple tortellini hangover.

Fillory—the supposedly fictional land that's the subject of the five books that _saved Quentin's life_ as a teenager—is real. It's _real._ Quentin's head can't take it. He needs to get a moment alone with Julia to verify it actually happened. The panic thrumming through him is low right now, but he can feel it threatening to build into something more dangerous. He struggles occasionally with life feeling unreal; Fillory being real is a fact that threatens to thoroughly throw his world completely off its axis.

"Morning, dad," Teddy mumbles sleepily, and Quentin zones in on the sound of his son's voice, letting it anchor him to what matters.

Teddy needs to get washed, dressed, fed, and then sent to school. Quentin sighs. In the exclamation mark state of his brain last night, he had set up Eliot in their apartment and grabbed Teddy's pajamas, Teddy's favorite pillow, and both of their toothbrushes, but he hadn't thought to gather any of the things Teddy might need for today. Does Teddy even have any homework or reading due today? Is there anything out of the ordinary he might need?

"You sleep okay?" Quentin asks, trying to pretend his brain isn't looping the same questions, a number of permanent tracks on his internal soundtrack: _are you a good father, are you sure you're not constantly fucking up your own kid?_

"I slept great. I wondered for a second if I might be going into hibernation."

Quentin smiles immediately. Man, he loves his kid. "Oh?"

"Mmhmm. I was so full of Uncle Josh's pasta I felt like an actual bear." Teddy rubs at his eyes sleepily. "I might be half made of pasta now."

"Me too," Quentin says regretfully, making a show of rubbing his stomach.

Teddy sits up, pulling away from Quentin, yawning and tugging his pillow to himself. Teddy has always been particular about his pillow. He can sleep anywhere, as long as he has it. One of Quentin's favorite early memories of Teddy was when he was only three years old and trying to tug his pillow along behind him in the airport (Julia had thought ahead and packed plenty of spare clean pillowcases into Quentin's carry-on) as they went to visit Arielle's parents in Hawaii for what would turn out to be the last time.

They haven't even asked to see Teddy since the divorce. Quentin wonders with a pang what Arielle told them, for them to abandon their own grandchild. He feels queasy if he thinks about that for too long, so he tries to push those thoughts away.

Quentin glances up at the large clock above the main counter. Julia's probably already awake and down in the bookstore—he can see her empty coffee mug upended by the sink. Kady and Penny don't often emerge until later in the morning. Josh is probably still in the spare bedroom—it had been too late for him to get back to his apartment safely. He offered to stay on the couch and let Quentin and Teddy use that bed, but Teddy's fond of sleeping on the penthouse couch. Mostly because Quentin doesn't let them, that often, too focused on giving Julia, Penny, and Kady a space where they can use magic at will. It's Quentin's choice to limit Teddy's exposure to magic, they shouldn't have to censor themselves in their own home.

As much as Penny had denigrated the food in Quentin's apartment, it's still more suitable for Teddy than anything the penthouse has to offer by way of breakfast. There's leftover pasta in the fridge—Josh had whined about Julia boxing it up, as reheating pasta is apparently some sort of cardinal sin in Hoberman-world—but Quentin's adult stomach twists uneasily at the idea of it first thing in the morning. Cereal's a much better idea, but all the cereal is downstairs in their apartment.

Julia put a subtle charm on Quentin's apartment that's linked to a crystal in the penthouse—it would change color if anything happened to Eliot, like if he really _did_ have a concussion and dangerously passed out. He looks over to the side table, where the crystal is sitting by the landline. It's still perfectly clear. Eliot's probably still asleep, Quentin thinks, so he won't be able to go for his own clothes—if there are any clean ones for him left in his room—but at least Teddy will be able to get his school uniform without disturbing Eliot.

"Let's go downstairs, huh?" Quentin nudges Teddy with his knee and his son nods sleepily, dragging his pillow up and following Quentin obediently to the door.

"I hope Eliot slept well," Teddy says.

Just when Quentin thinks his heart cannot expand any more, Teddy goes and proves him wrong. Quentin _really_ goddamn loves his son.

They head down the flight of stairs to the residential floor. Quentin always leaves their front door unlocked and off the latch. There are enough wards on the building itself to keep out anyone with bad intentions—there's been more than one potential thief that's tried to enter the bookstore and inexplicably found themselves bouncing away from the door and landing on their ass on the sidewalk—so it's not like he has to worry about their apartment being robbed.

Quentin has to immediately recant that thought as soon as he pushes open their apartment door.

For a moment, Quentin can't quite parse what he's seeing. His first coherent thought is that they must have wandered into the furnished spare apartment they have, because this isn't their place at all. It's spacious and clean, nothing lying out, no mess lying in piles. No dirty dishes on every potential surface.

But then he notices the familiar aspects of the room—the blanket dotted with stars over their couch that Julia got him for his twenty-first birthday; the ugly fruit bowl painted with sheep that Penny got them as a housewarming gift, thinking Quentin would be appalled by how disgusting it is (he is, but he refuses to give Penny the privilege of knowing that, so it's been on display for years); the rug on the floor that Quentin had bought secretly thinking it looked like the Fillory mosaic, despite the colors clashing with the rest of the room. Even Quentin's guitar—which he got when he was fifteen and never really learned to play—is visible and leaning against the corner, looking clean and polished.

Quentin has to take a deep, centering breath to maintain his grip on reality. He focuses very hard on the smell—Quentin's usual cleaning products, but also a hint of... vanilla and cinnamon?—and the sounds. The tinny clanging of the water pipes. The soothing low drone his freezer always makes. A clanking sound coming from the utility closet, where Quentin's favorite possessions live—his very own washing machine and dryer.

"Teddy, stay out in the hall, okay?" Quentin keeps his voice low and level. He might be freaking out internally, but he has to appear calm for his kid's sake.

"Fine," Teddy sighs.

Quentin's brain is whirring as he steps further into the apartment. What the fuck actually happened in here? All of Teddy's clean clothes and the clean sheets and towels are gone. Is Eliot still here? Has he absconded with all of Quentin and Teddy's clutter? What the _actual ever-living fuck_ is going on? Has Eliot been taken?

Quentin's worry over the latter possibility vanishes when he sees Eliot's crown sitting on their round table. The paperwork that had been littering that table is gone; all that remains is a cactus, the one and only plant that Quentin's ever managed to keep alive. Mostly because he keeps forgetting it even exists, which is pretty much the prime caretaking method for that particular variety.

Jesus, the windows are even shiny and clear, the curtains held open with what looks like Quentin's tie collection.

"Hello?" Quentin calls out. He frowns and advances cautiously. "Eliot?"

There's a thumping noise—and then Eliot's head pops out of the utility closet. For a brief second, Quentin is distracted by how good Eliot's hair looks like this, wild and untamed, mussed by sleep. But that distraction doesn't last for long in favor of another emotional reaction.

Namely, Quentin freaking the fuck out.

Mostly because hovering around Eliot's head is a _flying sock._ Quentin's eyes bug out at the sight of it and Eliot panics and waves his hand, the sock dropping to the ground. Oh, fucking hell.

"Hi!" Eliot's voice squeaks, the single syllable cracking.

Quentin looks back in horror, but Teddy must still be out in the hall. Thank goodness for that. He turns his attention back to Eliot.

"Hello," Eliot tries again, this time much more smoothly. "I hope you don't mind, I thought I'd tidy up a bit to say thank you for your hospitality and I, uh—guess I got carried away a bit."

"A _bit_?" Quentin echoes incredulously because Jesus, who knew his carpet was actually that color?

"I'm an early riser." Eliot looks sheepish. "I tried my best to figure out where everything went."

"Is it safe, can I come in now?" Teddy yells.

"Yeah," Quentin calls back, reassured now that it's clear their apartment hasn't been hit by a scoundrel, more an… embarrassingly thankful guest. Quentin's emotions are in a free-fall. The shame of the former mess is making Quentin's eyes feel hot, his stomach flipping uneasily. He feels wildly exposed, but also… overwhelmingly grateful, because he'd been drowning under the stress of having to do it. For Eliot to come in and do this… Quentin doesn't know what to feel first.

Teddy trots in, clutching his pillow and looking around with wide-eyes.

"Did we always have a table here?" Teddy asks, staring at it.

And then Quentin _does_ know what to feel first and he feels his cheeks heat in dismay. He hates feeling like he's let his kid down. Had Teddy been so uncomfortable here before?

"I want some of the clutter back but this is kinda neat," Teddy adds, and Quentin lets out a breath. He kind of likes the clutter too.

"I overstepped," Eliot says, his mouth turning down. "It's a problem. Sometimes I start something, meaning to do a little, and then I can't stop—"

"It's fine," Quentin says quickly, offering him a lukewarm smile, even though he doesn't quite know if that's true. It would be easier to figure out if Eliot wasn't insisting on existing in proximity to Quentin. There is something surreal about someone else being in their apartment, let alone someone who looks like Eliot. Up close, Quentin is constantly distracted by small details; the flecks of gold in his eyes, the way his hair curls at his neck. If Quentin wasn't seeing someone, he’d...well, it doesn’t matter. He’s way out of Eliot's league.

Although, Quentin is still half-convinced this isn't even his apartment. It makes more sense that he came in through the wrong door, and his dump of a living situation is still there, hiding, the junk and trash pushing up against the walls, the evidence of his failures pressing against him in every visible direction.

"Hey," Teddy says, from behind him, "look at that, I didn't even know our oven even _could_ turn on _._ "

Quentin whirls to see Teddy staring in fascination at their oven. It's lit up and whirring slightly, harmonizing with the louder hum of the freezer.

"While I was sorting, I noticed your flour was best before today, so I took the liberty of making some breakfast for us," Eliot says. “I hope you don’t mind.”

Quentin knows his face is doing that thing where he looks like he's drowning on dry land, because Eliot grimaces.

"I'll pay you back?" Eliot hurries to add. "I'm sure I have some money on American soil somewhere—"

"No, oh my god, no—" Quentin lowers his voice, "—I'm just embarrassed, man."

How is he supposed to know how to react like he's an actual human around this confident guy, who can clean up a whole disaster-zone apartment _and_ bake _and_ he's from _Fillory?_ Well. He's from Earth. But he's been living in the actual physical version of the land Quentin's been dreaming about his entire _life._ It would be mind-blowing for anyone, let alone one of Fillory's biggest, nerdiest, card-carrying fanboys. He means card-carrying _literally—_ there was a Junior Fillorian Fan Club Quentin was a member of as a kid; he mortifyingly still carries the worn-out membership card in the back of his wallet, behind a picture of Teddy.

"Well, it was selfish too, I wanted breakfast. I made enough for the three of us, though, I think," Eliot says. "I asked Julia last night, she said she and the others usually exist on coffee until the afternoon?"

Quentin nods. Eliot had taken the fact that Kady, Penny, and Julia were a trio in his stride, which made Quentin like him even more. People are too often shitty to them when they find out, but Eliot hadn't even looked surprised. Perhaps polyamory is more common in Fillory. The books never mentioned it.

"Yeah, all three of them are a bad example," Quentin pointedly glances at his son, and says with added emphasis, "because breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

"That's what sensei says too," Teddy nods.

"You should go wash up," Quentin says, nudging Teddy with his knee. "Go on. Shower and change."

"But—" Teddy turns wide-open, pleading eyes toward the oven.

"It won't be ready for another ten minutes," Eliot says, flashing a wide toothy smile at Teddy.

That makes Teddy's begging expression fade immediately and he clenches both his fists at once, a gesture Quentin _knows_ he's picked up from Julia. It's her getting-ready-to-kick-some-ass stance. "I'll be done in nine minutes," Teddy yells and turns to face his room. "Uh—" he falters, "—my uniform's usually on the armchair?"

Quentin wants to sink through the floor.

"I hung them up in your closet," Eliot says.

"I have a _closet?_ " Teddy skids off before Quentin can stop him and Quentin turns to Eliot in confusion.

"If you emptied the books from his closet," Quentin starts, slowly, "then where are his books?"

"He had a bookcase," Eliot shrugs. "I presumed the blank wall was where it was meant to go."

"But it was still in the box!"

"It's not the first time I've put together an Ikea product." Eliot leans elegantly against the breakfast bar. "I wasn't _always_ the King of Fillory, y'know."

"But I—" Quentin's brain stops. Just stops. It empties of every single thought at once. Normally Quentin has to be in the middle of a medication regimen change to get his mind this blank. Unfortunately the sensation doesn't last, and a thousand thoughts crash back in at once like someone's dumped seven jigsaws in a pile, not even leaving him a single guide image to follow. " _King?_ You're the _King_ of _Fillory?_ "

Thankfully, he somehow remembers to whisper, which he's especially glad about, because Teddy chooses that moment to skid out of his bedroom, a clothes hanger held high in his hand containing what looks like a neatly arranged set of Teddy's school uniform. And it looks like Eliot _ironed it._ Quentin wants to die of mortification, all over again.

"Eight minutes!" Teddy yelps as he runs.

"No running inside," Quentin yells after him. "You remember what happened last time you ran inside!"

Teddy's eyes widen and he forces himself to stop and walk normally down the hallway towards their bathroom. Quentin watches his exaggerated large steps with a suppressed smile, because it doesn't matter _what_ his emotions are doing, when Teddy's being cute, that's all that gets Quentin's focus.

"Of course I'm a King," Eliot says after the bathroom door has closed, tilting his head imperiously as Quentin looks at him. "Did you think the crown was a prop? I haven't read the books, but Margo informed me that Children of Earth are _always_ invited to rule Fillory, if they appear." Eliot pulls a face. "I suppose that rule stands only as long as the thrones are unoccupied."

Quentin is aware that he's gaping at Eliot. But honestly, some staring seems justified, considering the damage Eliot is doing to his grip on reality.

"Are you okay?" Eliot asks, kindly.

Quentin makes a strangled noise and thumps his face into his hands. "No. God, no, why would I be? This is _humiliating_.” Quentin mumbles the last word as he buries his nose into soft palm, considering never emerging again. "God. I thought it was bad enough that you'd get a glimpse of how messy this place is, but I thought—y'know—you'd be sleeping, and if the alternative was a bench in the fucking park, then a slightly rumpled bed was a better option—I never thought— and you're a _King?_ A King of _Fillory_ tidied up the fucking bomb site of the pathetic hole I try to call a home for my son, and it's not a home, it's a mess, _I'm_ a fucking mess, he deserves much more—and you saw this, _all_ of this—"

"Quentin."

Quentin reluctantly lowers his hands. Eliot must have moved sometime during Quentin's meltdown; he's hovering near him now, his dark eyes so _close_ to Quentin's, and one of his large hands is touching Quentin's elbow, cupping it gently, like he can keep Quentin from flying apart with one kind touch.

Quentin waits for the shudder of revulsion he always gets, when someone who he doesn't know touches him, but it doesn't come. Instead of the usual urge he gets to push people away who touch him without warning, Quentin shivers pleasantly.

Despite the evidence of his own senses yesterday, it still seems almost impossible that Fillory could be real. Even Eliot, standing right in front of him, touching his arm, seems like the kind of thing he could have made up. But he feels real. He's so close that Quentin can feel the warmth of his breath brushing his face.

"You have nothing to apologize for," Eliot says, after Quentin takes a breath and meets his solemn gaze. "Listen. _I'm_ the one who overstepped his boundaries this morning. I'm sorry about that. It's my forte, one could say. But I don't regret it. You're a single father. That's an incredible thing. Unimportant things like getting behind on unnecessary household tasks… it piles up sometimes. It happens to everyone. Even Kings of Fillory, for what it's worth."

Quentin makes a high-pitched noise. "I find that hard to believe."

"Because I'm so perfect in every other possible way?" Eliot waggles an eyebrow. "I know, it's difficult to think I might have flaws, but I have to insist you _try_ to believe it, despite all evidence to the contrary."

That makes Quentin laugh. Maybe it's hysteria, but it bubbles up in his chest suddenly, without warning.

Eliot grins, conspiratorially. "Once I got so backed up on the paperwork that I shoved it under my desk in fury. Four months later, my valet found it. A messenger bunny had shredded the whole lot and made itself a nest; there were six little...baby bunnies? Bunlets? Nestled up among all the invoices for taxes from the Outer Islands. We had to issue a grand decree to void them for a decade for a _very_ flimsy reason. Tick's face went so _red_ when the royal accountants pointed out we'd spent more on that official declaration than the ten caskets of fish we were owed in the first place."

That's too much detail to focus on. Quentin internally flails and fixes on the one part that stands out the most. "A messenger bunny?" Quentin's eyes rove over Eliot's face, looking for evidence that this is still some sort of hoax, but there's nothing deceptive in his expression at all.

"It's how we send messages around Fillory."

"Bunnies," Quentin repeats. Maybe he's only been believing it so far because he's so _desperate_ for it to be true. Maybe Eliot's memory is of a very intensely detailed computer generated image? Or the memory of seeing a highly complex Illusory spell? A small voice in the back of his mind asks what would disappoint him more: if Fillory isn't real, or if Eliot Waugh turns out to be insane?

That latter idea rolls around uncomfortably in Quentin's brain space. Eliot seems reasonable. And god, Quentin wants it to be true. _Messenger bunnies._ Maybe Eliot ties little handwritten notes to their necks and sends them hopping off down the path. What a mental image that is.

"Perhaps I'd best save that sort of talk for later," Eliot concludes, glancing warily down the hall towards the bathroom.

Oh, magic messenger bunnies. That makes more sense. Kind of. Quentin has to fight really hard not to faint, to be honest. Eliot has completely sorted out Quentin's apartment, down to _assembling furniture,_ and is making breakfast, _and_ now he's being considerate of Quentin's son?

If Quentin hadn't _met_ Eliot Waugh via grievous bodily injury inflicted by his son's too-eager door opening method, Quentin might suspect that Eliot had stepped straight out of one of the Fillory fanfics that Quentin had written as a horny and lonely teenager. Only Julia had ever discovered the url of his Fillory fic blog (deleted, but sadly scraped up on a web archiving site if you knew how to look for it) and that's how things are going to stay, because he also has the single remaining video hardcopy of her grade four single-woman performance of _The Death of a Salesman: The Musical._

"Anyway," Eliot continues, "from what I can see, Teddy has every single thing he needs in life and more. _In_ my overstepping, overbearing, controlling need to organize everything, I didn't see a single sign that you've done anything _but_ do everything for your son. And that's incredible."

 _That's_ what Eliot's gotten out of all of this? Quentin has to work hard on pretending that his eyes aren't stinging.

"I'm doing the bare minimum of what _any_ parent would do," Quentin mumbles.

"Believe me," Eliot says, pulling back and stepping around Quentin's breakfast bar to head toward the oven, "if it was the bare minimum, this world would be a _vastly_ different place."

Quentin frowns as Eliot turns away to pull down a pot holder from the hook which had been put up to store them but had, until this morning apparently, been the home of a rogue roll of packing tape.

Quentin's desire for an answer intensifies when he opens the oven door and pulls out not just a baking sheet of giant, fluffy cinnamon rolls but a tray of savory muffins as well. And then Eliot goes into Quentin's fridge and pulls out a platter of fruit he's cut up and Quentin knows he's staring.

"It's not much, I know," Eliot says, and Quentin throws him a horrified look, because Teddy's lucky to get a bowl of Bee Hoops with banana sliced on top for his breakfast. That's if the banana doesn't get shoved into Teddy's pocket so he has it as a snack for recess.

"I wanted to make sure you knew I was grateful for you putting me up," Eliot mumbles, finally looking sheepish. "I wasn't as keen about sleeping in the park as I tried to make it sound."

"You really didn't have to do any of this," Quentin says, but he can hear the weakness in his own voice, it all looks _so damn good._ He knows he should be responsible and firm and insist again that Eliot really didn't have to, but he doesn't have the energy for that. Not when he can sink down onto a stool without having to move books onto the floor. Jesus, how has he put up without proper seating for so long in his own apartment?

The smell of the food is incredible and Quentin's to-do list for the day is already arranging itself in his head, clear now there is no chore backlog to weigh him down. He feels almost light-headed with relief. The guilt remains, though. He should have done it himself, somehow; Teddy deserves a nice home to live in. But Eliot's done it now, his apartment is clean; Quentin isn't about to mess it up on principle.

He won't have to be reminded of the reason for that guilt for long. Eliot will find his portal—to fucking _Fillory?_ What the hell—and he'll disappear out of Quentin's life. Quentin feels a brief flash of grief for his younger self, who would have thrown himself with Eliot through _any_ portal at a moment's notice, and he carefully packages that thought up and puts it aside to deal with later. Quentin knows when he unwraps that bundle he's going to be an emotional mess, because _Fillory_. He can't afford to break down. Not right now.

Eliot will leave, and Quentin will… Probably go back to normal. What else can he do? He can't move Teddy out of school, not at this stage in Teddy's education, and he can't bear to be anywhere where Teddy isn't. The point is, Eliot won't be around, so Quentin won't have to face the man who's making him feel so desperately off-kilter.

"Eight and a half minutes," Teddy yells, skidding out of the bathroom fully dressed and clean. "Champioooooooon."

Quentin turns to grin at his son. "You are the champ."

Eliot's brow is furrowed.

"We, uh, we have time management issues in the Coldwater household," Quentin says. "We like to make sure we celebrate the behavior we want to become habits."

"And whoever gets to be champ the most, gets to pick the movie on movie night," Teddy says.

"Alas, Teddy wins more often than not."

"Dad _lets_ me win because he prefers kid movies to adult ones," Teddy informs Eliot, trotting over to join them by the breakfast bar.

"C'mon, Eliot was nice enough to make us breakfast," Quentin says, knocking Teddy's chin affectionately with two knuckles when he's close enough to reach. Teddy rolls his eyes but looks pleased at the same time. "Why don't you help by getting out some plates and cutlery, huh?"

"I can do that," Teddy says, then pauses to look at the food suspiciously, then back up at Eliot. " _You_ made this?"

Eliot inclines a small bow, like Teddy's the one of them that's actually royalty. "I did indeed."

"But it looks as good as the food Josh makes." Teddy's eyebrows knot, like the idea of more than one good cook in his small world is that unbelievable. Quentin thinks regretfully of the cooking attempts he, Penny, Kady, and Julia have made over the years.

"Oh, believe me, Josh Hoberman isn't the only person in the world who can cook. Give me some flour, eggs, and sugar, I can work _magic,_ " Eliot says, wiggling his hands in a way Quentin doesn't _think_ is a tut, but he still draws in a warning breath anyway.

"Dad doesn't believe in magic," Teddy says, his small head ducking into the plate cupboard. He emerges with three small plates. Huh. Quentin hasn't seen them for _weeks._ He and Teddy have been eating every meal they eat at home off the same two plates for months now. Washed in-between uses, of course. But catching up on the dishes is a rolling chore that makes Quentin feel like he’s running on a permanent treadmill.

Teddy's face is bright with joy as he looks at all the food available. Quentin's emotions war for a moment, his feelings of inadequacy as a parent jostling for attention (should this be what breakfast is supposed to look like every day?), but he settles on feeling pleased that his kid is happy.

"It's just a turn of phrase," Eliot says, starting to dish out the food, making sure Teddy doesn't dive right for the cinnamon rolls first. "And your _dad_ has a large number of trick playing cards for someone who doesn't believe in magic."

Quentin glares. "You know how you were talking about having overstepped some boundaries—"

Eliot does grimace apologetically. "To be fair, it's not like I went rooting under your bed. There were two packs under your pillow?"

Oh. Yeah. Quentin's face warms. "I do card tricks when I can't sleep."

Eliot waggles an eyebrow. "Now _there's_ a new definition of magic in bed."

Quentin doesn't know what to feel mortified over first: Eliot thinking of Quentin in bed? Eliot using the m-word in front of his kid again? Eliot using _innuendo_ in front of his kid?

"It's not actually magic," Teddy says, instantly nullifying the last two worries. "What dad does is _sleight of hand._ Only stupid people get tricked by the misdirection and think it's magic."

"Maybe you can show me some before I leave," Eliot says, smiling charmingly at Quentin. "I'm sure they'd work on me. I like to think I'm pretty stupid most of the time."

"I doubt that," Quentin says dismissively, biting into a muffin and having to suppress a sound of surprise. It tastes amazing. He can't believe Eliot made this out of what was hanging around his kitchen.

"You barely know me," Eliot says quietly, sparing a fond look at how earnestly Teddy digs into the food, clearly enjoying himself.

"I know the method you used to, uh, exit our shared school," Quentin shrugs. "To manage that intricacy as a first year… it was impressive. Someone stupid couldn't have done _half_ of it."

It had been the focus of one of Quentin's second year Botany papers, actually; he'd been interested in the amount of sheer work needed to alter the basic programming of enchanted plant life, to make them act in opposition to their original nature. The trick, Quentin had discovered, involved changing the definition of certain things; Eliot (although Quentin had barely thought about the identity of the student behind the prank, beyond plenty of admiration at the ingenuity of it) had essentially caused the topiary animals to believe Brakebills was one giant egg, and every living person or plant inside was a dire threat to their progeny.

"I guess so," Eliot says, looking stunned.

"Wait, you and Eliot went to school together?" Teddy looks up between them, suddenly interested.

"He left the year before I got there," Quentin explains.

"That's a shame," Teddy says. "I could have had _two_ Uncles and not just Uncle Penny." He regards Eliot curiously, as if trying to picture Eliot joining Julia, Kady, and Penny in their relationship.

"Oh yeah, you totally missed out on that one," Quentin says, grinning at Eliot widely. "Poor guy. Spared from a lifetime of attitude and hair products."

Eliot bursts out laughing, a musical noise. "You're kind of mean, aren't you, Coldwater?"

"That's what Uncle Penny says!" Teddy beams at Eliot. "Although he says _very,_ not _kind of._ "

Eliot laughs again. "I like it."

"That's what Aunt Kady says," Teddy says.

"Well, I think Aunt Kady sounds like a smart woman," Eliot says solemnly.

"She says that too," Teddy says.

"Aunt Julia disagrees, though," Quentin adds.

"I bet she does," Eliot says, sounding fond, which makes something deep in Quentin warm. Anyone who likes his friends is automatically in Quentin's good books.

The conversation continues after that, as warm and pleasant as the food. Quentin finds himself zoning out for some of it, distracted by the smallest things: the way their apartment looks nice in the early morning sun when it's clean and tidy; the genuine way Eliot leans in and listens when Teddy talks about his karate or plans for the future; the way Eliot's hands move when he talks, still graciously avoiding all mention of magic.

It's funny how Eliot doesn't feel like an unnatural addition to their morning family dynamic. A lump builds in Quentin's throat. Arielle left before Teddy was old enough to easily sit at table for dinner without excessive attention paid to him—Teddy used to be a very fussy eater, something that's taken him a few years to grow out of—so they never even really had a routine back then.

Quentin normally insists on eating as many meals as possible with just him and Teddy, because with Teddy at school and Quentin's work, mealtime is prime bonding time. But with Eliot, it feels different. It feels right to have him here.

In fact, it feels so natural that Quentin's surprised when Eliot asks if there are any clothes he could maybe borrow.

Quentin stares at him uncomprehending for a moment, before blinking, the words sinking in. He looks at Eliot, his long limbs, and then down at his own clothes. He's realized from the clunking of the washing machine that Eliot is doing a load of laundry, but even if Quentin’s clothes are clean, they're not exactly Eliot's size.

"Shirt-wise we might be fine, but I don't think I have anything that wouldn't get you arrested for public indecency," Quentin says reluctantly.

"Ah, who says that's not my aesthetic," Eliot grins. "I'd be grateful for a change, that's all. I wanted to shower, but I couldn't bring myself to if I had to pull the same pants on again. These pants have been through a lot. They've _seen_ things, Quentin. Terrible things."

"Uncle Penny said he was gonna give some of his stuff to Goodwill," Teddy pipes up. "What if we asked if Eliot could borrow some?"

Quentin nods. It's a good idea. Eliot and Penny are closer in height. "Right, I should—"

"I'll go," Teddy says. "I want to say thank you for letting us sleep on their couch last night."

Quentin doesn't cry from pride, but it's a close thing. "Go," he says, instead of saying anything else. "But _no running inside._ "

Teddy nods as he slips off the stool. "Got it!"

"He's a good kid," Eliot says, as soon as Teddy disappears through the door.

Quentin turns and nearly swallows his tongue; he hadn't heard Eliot stand up too. Eliot's really close to him. Way too close. Quentin feels overly warm. Maybe he's eaten too much again?

"Uh, maybe don't be too grateful," Quentin says. "Penny's taste is, uh, eclectic. I don't get it myself. Most of what he wears looks like it's been made from a pair of curtains."

"I noticed last night he was fond of scarves, so that explains why," Eliot says. "It's to pull the outfit together."

Quentin laughs, the sound startling out of him. Eliot beams, like he's pleased to have made it happen. "Uh, I wanted to tell you where all the stuff is for the bathroom. But I get the feeling you already know where the clean towels are."

Eliot's cheeks go red and he backs away, starting to stack the remnants of food together. "I do go overboard sometimes," he admits. "I’m so used to being mostly useless, that I got carried away. I'm sorry I invaded your personal space. I keep forgetting what this place is like."

"New York?"

"Earth." Eliot regards Quentin warily, like he's worried the reminder might upset Quentin. "Human customs and Fillorian customs are wildly different."

"Oh. Yeah. I get it. Cultural shock, I guess. Like going from a muggle world straight into Brakebills. Total whiplash."

"Ah, your parents weren't..." Eliot gestures with one hand, careful not to say the word magic even with Teddy out of the room.

"No. Mom was an artist. Dad wrote medical textbooks."

"And Teddy hasn't—"

"Nothing so far," Quentin admits. He can feel his shoulders bunching in tension. "But Julia and I both did okay only finding out we were different in our twenties. If that's Teddy's path, I'm sure he'll be fine."

"I wasn't criticizing your decision," Eliot says, quickly. "I’m pleased. If Teddy _did_ do something, you'd be able to explain it and support him then; it's not like you'd be leaving him to figure it out alone."

Quentin looks at Eliot uncertainly. Julia, Penny, Kady, _and_ Josh all take time out of their days to condemn the decision. Even Alice thinks he's overreacting. A wary acceptance of it is unusual.

"I should put these away," Eliot says, gesturing again at the breakfast leftovers.

"I’m not exactly homemaker of the year but I think I can clean up after _one meal_. You wanted a shower."

"Yeah." Eliot grimaces. "Indoor plumbing where I am is...not exactly amazing."

Quentin blinks. "I guess the Fillory books never really _did_ go into detail about how the Chatwins went to the bathroom. Although in _The Secret Sea,_ there was mention of a creature befouling the Wellspring—"

"The Wellspring's entrance _is_ a wooden outhouse. A lot like the one in _Shrek._ " At Quentin's glance of surprise, Eliot shrugs. "If I'd known it would be one of the last movies I'd see in my life, I might have picked something else."

"No movies in Fillory either, then?"

"Honestly, Quentin," Eliot says, pulling back and heading toward the bathroom, "can you tell me hand on your heart that I've missed any truly great cinematic masterpieces in my ten year absence to rule a fantasy kingdom?"

Quentin thinks about it. "Sharknado?"

Eliot pauses to mouth _Sharknado._ "Tell me that isn't about what it _sounds_ like it's about."

"Tornadoes full of man-eating sharks that terrorize the globe?"

Eliot blinks multiple times in a row. "I think I made the right decision to vacate the _entire planet._ "

Quentin shrugs at him. He can't argue. The only thing that keeps _him_ consistently fond of Earth is that his son lives on it.

Quentin is halfway through putting the breakfast remains away (Eliot's washed and tidied the inside of his fridge too, what the _fuck_ ) when there's a loud knock on the front door. At first he worries that Teddy's overfilled his arms with clothes and has either kicked the door to be let in _or_ more worryingly, hit it with his forehead. So he's not in the clearest head space when he opens the door and sees it's not Teddy after all.

It's Alice.

Quentin's stomach swoops instantly at the sight of her, and it's not butterflies at how pretty she looks. Alice. _Alice._ He totally forgot all about that. She's here to pick Teddy up to take him to school. Of course.

"Alice!" Quentin yelps, maybe too loudly. "Shit. I mean hi. Good morning. Hi."

Alice frowns at the greeting, but does dart in and kiss him perfunctorily on the cheek before coming into the apartment, after Quentin stumbles back and awkwardly gestures at her to enter.

"Julia let me up," Alice says. Her voice seems stiff. "She seems just as nice as you said she was."

God. Shit. Quentin had been planning to be outside the building in time to meet her, so he could bring her around the back of the building and skip the awkward friend meet for now. The useful adult part of his brain has apparently taken an impromptu vacation. He'd wanted to introduce Alice to Julia on his own terms.

Oh, well. Julia's been dying to meet Alice. At least one person will be happy.

"Right," Quentin says. "Sorry. I planned to introduce you myself. Things have been a bit...it's been a weird morning."

"I'll say," Alice says, looking around. "Did you guys get a maid or something?"

"Definitely something," Teddy says, coming in from behind Alice with a huge pile of clothing in his arms. Unlike Quentin feared, it all looks rather sensible—maybe they're from Penny's short-lived and ill-fated stint as a librarian-in-training.

"Good morning, Teddy," Alice says. She leans down to talk to him. "How's it hanging?"

Teddy gives her a strange look as he comes around her to dump the clothing on an armchair. "How's _what_ hanging?"

Alice's eyes widen and she shuffles in closer to Quentin. "Is that not what the kids say now?" she asks in a hiss.

Quentin shrugs.

"Your place looks really nice," Alice says, looking around curiously, until her eyes land on the breakfast bar, and the evidence that three people have been eating together. Her eyes narrow when she hears the shower running in the distance. "Is...someone else here?"

"Oh, that's Eliot," Teddy says brightly.

Alice turns to stare at Quentin. "I thought you said _no one_ ever comes here. Who's _Eliot_?"

Quentin flushes. He hurries over to the clothes Teddy has brought down, hurriedly picking through them to pull out pants, underwear, a shirt, a tie, some socks. "Uh, Eliot's—there was an incident in the store—it's a temporary situation—Nothing to worry about." Quentin knows he's rambling, but he can't stop himself.

"Nothing to worry about," Alice repeats, and that's the exact moment everything goes wrong.

Quentin's stumbling toward the bathroom with the clothes, too flustered to be completely aware of what's going on, and as he does, Eliot comes out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist. Eliot’s soaking wet, and in a beautiful example of Quentin's tendency toward noisy, showy clumsiness—a trait Teddy's unfortunately inherited—somehow Quentin and Eliot collide.

Sending them both crashing together to the ground.

Eliot handles it with grace, laughing as they crash down in a tangle of too many limbs. Quentin can't really parse what's going on in his head: the rearranging of his body versus gravity is always wildly disorienting, and it's not helped by the heavy weight on top of him. His hand has somehow landed in Eliot's messy, wet hair, and he can feel the pain of carpet burn from the fall.

Eliot's eyes are so close to his. For a moment, that's all that exists in Quentin's world. Eliot's eyes. The feeling of his weight on Quentin, anchoring him down, secure, not oppressive. The silky slide of Eliot's wet hair beneath his fingers.

"Whoops," is all Eliot offers as he rallies after a second, lifting himself up from Quentin, helping tug Quentin up in one smooth, graceful movement; but Quentin even manages to fumble that, knocking into Eliot as they both straighten up. Quentin knows he's blushing now, this is ridiculous; he thought he'd been embarrassed enough before.

He thinks they might be frozen together for a while but then Alice inhales sharply, so loud that it breaks Quentin's momentary stillness.

Quentin stumbles back, suddenly aware of how this looks—Eliot's half-naked, water dripping down what's a—oh, very nice physique, wow, and the hair on Eliot's stomach that—that—that's something Quentin's going to remember later, shit, how is it even possible for one person to be so _hot_ —and shit, Alice, _Alice,_ what the hell is Quentin's brain doing to him?

It's mostly replaying the brief sensation of a half-naked and wet Eliot Waugh on top of him, to be honest, but Quentin's not ready to handle his brain throwing that kind of truth at him. Not when Alice is staring at him, appalled. Her quick eyes have already caught the Cacodemon tattoo on Eliot's back, and she's obviously come to the correct conclusion.

Alice steps back and stumbles out of the apartment.

"Alice," Quentin sighs and runs after her. Eliot grimaces after him as Quentin flees.

Alice rounds on him as soon as the door to his apartment closes behind them.

"I thought you were being _sweet,_ " Alice hisses. Her small hands move quickly, an extra silence ward slipping around them, an invisible and impressive spell that will keep Teddy safe. A knot lodges in Quentin's throat, because she's _incredible._ And he's managed to accidentally upset her, which is _perfect_. "Oh, Teddy's so young and vulnerable to change, I don't want him to be introduced to too many people—"

"Eliot's not—that's nothing."

"So you regularly let _nothing_ run around half-naked in your apartment."

"C'mon, Alice, you're overreacting. Let's talk. I'm sure you'll understand when I tell you, it was crazy yesterday—"

"I thought we already talked about Teddy and the impact of overnight guests," Alice snaps. "I thought it was nice, that you understand boundaries and you're _sensitive._ I didn't realize you were worried about _crowd control._ "

Quentin's never been able to handle conflict well. He's sure he's missing out what he needs to say, but also, Alice isn't even _listening._ "There was an accident. Eliot needed somewhere to stay—"

"Oh, I _bet_ he did."

"C'mon Alice. Listen to me. Let me explain."

Alice huffs. "Fine. Explain. If you can."

"There was an accident in the store yesterday. Teddy accidentally hit Eliot with the door. It was bad. Real bad. Blood everywhere. He didn't have anywhere safe to go, not for someone who has a potential concussion. That's it. I _swear._ Teddy and I slept upstairs. Eliot took the apartment."

Alice exhales slowly. "Fine. But that doesn't explain the rest of it."

Quentin frowns. "The rest of _what_?"

Alice folds her arms angrily. "You know, when you weren't outside to greet me, Julia let me in, and expressed surprise you hadn't even thought to invite me to the dinner last night."

"Well, it was a late decision," Quentin says awkwardly. "It wasn't _planned._ "

"I've said you can shoot me a text if you ever have any dinner plans that you feel like sharing. You know how often I'm available last minute for that."

Quentin squirms. He does know. Alice has made it clear. He just...hasn't been ready to invite her to one of the big raucous dinners in the Penthouse yet. "I didn't think of it," he mumbles.

"Was Eliot there too?"

"Well, yes, but—" Quentin starts.

"I've been patient with you, Quentin. I _know_ it's tough being a single father. I thought it was sensible that you were being cautious about letting me into your life for your son's sake. I thought you were minimizing Teddy's exposure to magicians, and being responsible and sweet about it. I didn't realize you were _keeping me away_ from your other hook-ups."

Quentin gapes at her. "I told you, Eliot wasn't a hook-up!"

"How'm I supposed to know otherwise? You keep me away from your friends, like you're ashamed of me."

"I thought you understood—" Quentin's brain is a furious, angry exclamation mark. If he keeps talking, he knows he'll say something he'll regret. And time is getting on. Teddy needs to leave for school soon or he'll be late. "You know what, let's talk later."

"Yeah, I don't know about that," Alice says, waving her hand and dispelling the silence ward, starting to stalk away.

Quentin frowns. "What about taking Teddy to school? I thought you _wanted_ some grown-up kid bonding time with him."

Alice throws him a hard look. "What, so you can have some grown-up bonding time with Eliot?"

Quentin stares. He's been cautious. That's all. Teddy deserves more than someone flitting in and out of their life. "But—" he starts.

"Just leave me alone," Alice yells, clattering down the stairs.

Quentin gapes after her miserably. Shit. _Shit._ He takes a deep breath, wondering about chasing after her. A normal man might, but he's never been in the same area as normal. He doesn't know what normal _is._ He knows what _he_ is, what he wants to be, and more than anything else, that's a responsible and good father.

When he goes back inside the apartment, probably radiating glumness, with his hands shoved in his pockets and shoulders hunched, Eliot is dressed and looking apologetic, and Teddy is standing with his school bag looped over his shoulders, ready to go. The remnants of breakfast have been put away too. Quentin sighs and fidgets.

"Teddy, c'mon, it's just you and me today for the school run," Quentin says.

"Doesn't Eliot want to come too?" Teddy asks, looking up at Eliot expectantly.

Eliot's hair is still wet, even though he could have used magic to dry it; Quentin's heart fumbles in his chest awkwardly at the realization, at the care other people might not have exhibited.

"I'd like to chat with your Aunt Julia about something if you don't mind," Eliot says. "She has a friend coming by to check me out."

Teddy nods like that's understandable, and Quentin smiles at Eliot gratefully. Eliot looks regretful, like he hadn't meant to cause any bother. Quentin doesn't know how to tell him that as usual, the mess is all Quentin's fault.

* * *

The walk to school and back is enough to unfog Quentin's mind. At first, he'd been appalled that Alice would be that angry or jump to conclusions, but he forces himself to think about things from her perspective.

He has been too cautious introducing her to his life. Keeping her away from Teddy might have been sensible, but there's no reason why he hasn't introduced her properly to his friends yet.

Well. Rewind that. There's no _good_ reason for it. Quentin knows the real reason why he's been keeping Alice at arm's length even from his best friends. He just doesn't want to admit it.

The point is, Alice is _so_ right to be that level of pissed off at him. He only hopes he can figure out how to apologize and explain it to her before it's too late. He likes her. They're good for each other, he thinks. She's almost as painfully shy as he is. They're both introverted, so they respect each other’s need for strictly delineated personal space and time. They've even talked about how well their personal lives would mesh if they were to get engaged and have Alice move in. There's an empty apartment in their building, so if they knocked a door through, Alice would have room for her library and a study. The bathroom in that unit could be Teddy's—they could even move his bedroom in there so there'd be more space for him as he grew up.

Quentin knows he's good for her. He's seen the way she closes up around other people, hiding her magical gifts from them out of instinct, but with Quentin, she's open about how clever and brilliant she is. She responds to the positive affirmation Quentin has developed to use with Teddy, and she's picked it up quickly in reverse, encouraging Quentin's mending work. She even let him help fix some of her complex equipment, devices she admitted to him a few weeks ago she's only ever worked on herself.

They work together, theoretically, in so many ways. And Quentin _has_ been keeping her away from those who mean everything to him. They've kissed, and Alice clearly wants it to go beyond that—and Quentin's sure it'll be fine in that department, she's _so_ beautiful, and for some reason she seems to really be into Quentin, so even though they haven't slept together, Quentin doesn't think they'll be incompatible.

Quentin needs to figure out how to say all this. How to apologize to her properly.

Alice isn't Arielle. She isn't like Arielle even _slightly_. Quentin doesn't have a right to treat her like she's going to hurt Quentin in exactly the same way, and it's been deeply unfair to her to treat her with so much wariness. He needs to get over himself, basically. Quentin takes a deep, annoyed breath. That’s way easier said than done.

He's still feeling sheepish when he returns to the bookstore. Julia's alone at the counter when he ducks through the door. He crosses the floor to her, looking as ashamed as he can. Sometimes Julia goes softer on him if she can see how vulnerable he's feeling.

"Where's Eliot?" Quentin asks first, because he's a coward who will always try and change the conversation from a potentially painful one if he can.

"Lipson got here a few minutes ago." Julia drums her fingers on the cash register. "She took him upstairs into Kady's office so that customers wouldn't wander in on her checking him out."

"Oh." Quentin pulls a face. "I probably need to apologize to him too."

"Well, considering the way Alice stormed through here, I'd say you probably fucked up," Julia says.

Quentin stares at her sourly for a second and then sags against the counter, rubbing his hands over his face. "She got the wrong impression, that's all. I'll clear things up with her."

"We had a brief chat before she went upstairs. She has a point, Q. You _have_ been acting like you're ashamed of her." Julia's eyes go a bit flinty. "Or ashamed of us."

Quentin's head lurches up, feeling bad that Julia would even think that. "God, no, that's not it at _all._ I've just been...overly cautious. I can't introduce every person I date to Teddy. I have to be sure it's serious."

"And Alice and you aren't serious?"

"Yeah," Quentin says. "I mean no. No, we are serious. I think so." His brain is a mess. "Okay, maybe I don't know."

"You seemed more sure yesterday."

"I hadn't argued with her yesterday. You know I can't ever trust my emotions after conflict." Quentin sighs. "Jesus, you _know_ why I haven't let her meet you all yet. You _know_ why."

Julia's expression softens. "You have to give someone a chance. Stop chasing them away before they have a chance to leave you."

"Stab me immediately in my soft and squishy spots, why don't you," Quentin complains, trying to resist the urge to hide his face in his hands again. "I'll make it up to her. And I'm sorry for making you think I was ashamed of you. I'm not. I'm just...fucking up, as usual."

He can't look her in the eyes. He stares out into the bookstore instead, sparing an annoyed glance at the new display of dragon books he can see in the corner, because Julia's way too soft for Teddy, and Quentin's probably going to have to accept his son's new obsession.

"Think about inviting her to come over tomorrow, okay?" Julia suggests. "Josh has been talking about making breakfast foods for dinner. We can make a party of it."

"Alice does love bacon," Quentin says. "Fine. I'll think about it. I _promise._ "

"Your first appointment is in half an hour," Julia says gently, knowing Quentin can only take so much. "Why don't you get washed up and dressed. You'll feel better after."

Quentin resists the urge to pull a face. He's a grown-up now. A semi-functioning adult. He has a _son._ He shouldn't need his best friend to tell him to do basic, everyday tasks. But he's grateful for it, nonetheless.

"Thanks, Jules," he says, leaning in and kissing her forehead. "You're the best."

"I know," Julia beams.

"I don't tell you enough," Quentin calls back as he heads for the stairs.

"I know that too," Julia says, sing-song.


	5. Eliot

The magician that turns up to check Eliot for a concussion is someone he only vaguely remembers: Eleanor Lipson. He tries his best to conjure up all the information he knows about her. She's the head Healer at Brakebills. According to Margo's gossip, Lipson liked to proposition every student as soon as they graduated; she could be ditzy in social occasions, but is competent on-call.

Lipson apparently remembers Eliot too. She seems very flattered to learn that Eliot remembers _her,_ and promptly hits on him. Well. It's reassuring to know that _some_ things don't change, he supposes.

At first, Eliot had assumed that Kady was still wary of him, given the way she hovers nearby, but as Lipson's tests continue, Eliot realizes Kady's protecting _him_ , keeping Lipson from being overly friendly. That's kind of nice. Once a Physical Kid of Brakebills, always a Physical Kid.

Penny blips in with a message for Kady, and moments later, Julia comes in to let Kady wander off; Penny hangs around too, which at first Eliot takes as overkill (he can protect himself from Lipson), until he realizes Penny seems to be there solely to stare adoringly at Julia's face.

"Well, apart from some fatigue, he's absolutely fine," Lipson declares a few minutes later, starting to pack her gear away into a neat leather doctor's bag. "Low iron levels, maybe. Could do with a bit more sunshine. But no concussion. You were right to call me. Any other Healer would have picked up on that interdimensional energy and mistaken it for something else." She brightly smiles at Julia.

"But he's fine," Julia says, her voice still thick with skepticism.

Eliot feels a twinge of irritation at her continued doubt.

"Oh, he's _absolutely_ fine," Lipson says, with another pointed glimpse down Eliot's body. Eliot smirks. Even though she's not his type, it is nice to be admired.

"But he says he's come from Fillory," Julia adds, in a whisper she probably thinks is surreptitious.

"I wouldn't be dismissive, darling." Lipson squints through another combination of colored glass before putting them away too. "Pearl came back yesterday from her sabbatical mapping the Neitherlands. It's—" Lipson frowns, obviously wondering how to phrase it.

"The Neitherlands are an...in-between land, filled with fountains," Eliot says. "Each fountain leads to another place, usually a different realm, but not always." If he focuses, he can remember what the Fillory fountain looks like—the mirrored Ember and Umber figureheads. There are hundreds of fountains, but at least the Fillory one is distinctive. Without a button, though, Eliot doesn't think it will let him through.

"Yes, that," Lipson says, nodding at Eliot's interjection. "Other dimensions exist, the multiverse is real, and my checks say this man's brain has not been rattled irredeemably by this misadventure. I'm sure Pearl would be happy to brief you on her work. That's Professor Sunderland, by-the-way."

Eliot watches Julia and Penny exchange a small, knowing glance; he guesses Professor Sunderland is still basically the most popular teacher on campus. Most students pass through her doors in order to discover their Discipline; Eliot remembers how she insisted on running him through over twenty minutes of tests, getting increasingly annoyed that she couldn't disprove his self-diagnosis.

"So she would know how to get to the Neitherlands," Julia says. She looks at Eliot speculatively. "Would it help if we could get you there?"

"Not really." Eliot sighs. "There's a...token you need to pass through the fountain to Fillory. Without it, I can't get through. That's why I was hoping to retrace my steps to find the location of the direct portal that brought me here. If it's not blocked on the other side, I can probably re-open it." Okay, that's a maybe, and he'll need a few hours at the clock and that's even _ignoring_ the fact the old woman who pushed him through probably took measures to prevent him from re-entering.

Eliot can feel panic rising in his throat and he swallows it back down. Margo's coming to find him. Margo's the best at so many things. Margo is good enough that she'd easily find a blocked-up portal. She’d never leave him lost. She _won't._

"By token, you don’t happen to mean button, do you?" Julia asks.

Eliot's eyebrows rise in surprise, wondering how she knows, until he remembers the books. "Yes, actually. Margo was the mastermind for finding it originally. I...tagged along." As if that's not the story of his whole life.

"Oh, Margo!" Lipson smiles brightly. "I remember her, what a force of nature, I was so _fond_ of her. Since she left, I haven't heard _nearly_ as much creative swearing within Brakebills' walls. How is she now?"

"Well, she's a High King of her favorite childhood fantasy kingdom, so, doing pretty well for herself, really," Eliot shrugs.

"High King, huh?" Lipson purses her lips in consideration. "Why not, eh? Can't be a bad place with a woman on top."

Eliot can't disagree.

"Pen," Julia says, leaning into Penny's side and smiling up at him, "would you mind dropping Eleanor back at Brakebills? It'll save her walking all that way to the portal. You can probably stop by Professor Sunderland's office while you're there, ask if she'd mind talking to us about the Neitherlands. She might have come across Fillory too."

Penny's brow furrows heavily. "I'm not an Uber," he sniffs. "But, I guess because you asked so nicely, I don't mind it. This time.”

"Awww," Julia beams and kisses him, smiling throughout it. Penny looks dazed when he pulls back, like he's taken a strong hit of the good stuff. "Thanks, babe."

Lipson is incorrigible: she gives Penny a once-over when he offers her his hand. She looks back at Julia as she picks up her doctor's bag.

"Tell Coldwater this makes us even," Lipson says, and before Julia can respond, Penny blinks her out of there.

"Well, I don't remember her _that_ well, but it seems she hasn't changed much," Eliot says, into the silence.

"Yeah, I'm still stuck on the _you're not crazy_ part," Julia says, smiling apologetically at him.

"It's okay," Eliot says graciously. "I'm surprised too."

"I need to get back to work," Julia says. "I'm sure you're keen to go back to, uh, Fillory I guess. Yeah, I can’t say that with a straight face—"

"Home is fine. Castle Whitespire's been my home for over a decade, after all."

Julia blinks like she's trying her best to process that statement. "Yeah, I, uh, let's stick with that."

Eliot picks up his crown from where he put it on the table and holds it—he feels awkward putting it back on, especially when he's dressed like a teenager going for their first office job—and Julia eyes it for a second, obviously contemplating it in a new light now she knows he's sane. She doesn't say anything as she opens the door and gestures for him to follow her.

Eliot swallows back a note of disappointment as he follows Julia down the stairs back to the bookstore. In a weird way, this place has already started to grow on him. There's a homey charm to it somehow. He feels a pang in his chest that he honestly hasn't felt since he and Margo were heading down the driveway out of Brakebills, heads held high. At the time, Eliot's eyes had burned with every step, regret ballooning in his chest for dragging his best friend down with his shit.

"I'm sorry for taking you away from your store," Eliot says as he follows Julia back down to the shop.

"Eh, Josh is on shift," Julia waves a casual hand. "And I'm on a writers' block right now for my own work." She throws him an amused look over her shoulder. "It's distracting, finding out my favorite books are real."

"As far as we can tell Plover only plagiarized the setting. He seems to have used it as a background for his anemic Narnia copy of a plot," Eliot says.

"Oh my god," Julia stops, turning around in the narrow stairwell to stare up at Eliot in wide-eyed amusement. "I would pay you _good money_ to call the Fillory series an _anemic Narnia copy_ within Quentin's hearing. I'm not even kidding. If you need a couple hundred bucks, come back and do that, I'm happy to pay, I'm serious."

Eliot laughs. "If it would upset him I don't know if I could bring myself to do it."

Julia's face does something interesting, an expression that appears and disappears so fast Eliot thinks he must have imagined it. "Yeah," she says, after a second. "Worth a try, though. He'd _explode._ "

She resumes her journey back down the stairs and Eliot follows.

The bookstore is empty when they get downstairs. Eliot is disappointed to see that; there's something so charming about the place. But with what he's learned, the bookstore isn't really even the main earner of the place. The money comes in from all the stuff that Quentin, Kady, Julia, and Penny do _around_ it. The bookstore seems like an afterthought, a hobby for all of them. Magic took a lot of study; Fogg worked hard to find the right kind of damaged nerds with magical potential for his school. It stood to reason most Brakebills magicians would be book addicts.

Eliot's attention span made books at school a necessary evil. Margo's the bookworm of the two of them; it's why she even found the wacky True Love spell, reading through Whitespire's library for _fun._ Eliot has no idea what that sort of passion must be like. He's in his thirties and still doesn't even really know what he would do if he wasn't King of Fillory.

He shoves down the voice that says even _as_ King of Fillory he doesn't do anything useful. Fillory itself might not notice if Eliot never gets back, save for its High King raising hell about his disappearance.

Eliot pushes all those thoughts away. Margo's why he's there in Fillory, and she's more than good enough a reason to want to do _anything._ He has to get back to her. There's nothing else in the entire multiverse that he wants to do, besides see her every single day.

"Hey, man," Josh greets. "You got the all-clear, huh?"

Eliot beams and crosses over to him as Julia makes a beeline for a slightly dismantled display. It's nice to see Josh Hoberman again; Eliot had missed his round face and wide smile, and had resigned himself to never seeing him again. To have a familiar, kind face around makes being away from Margo and Fillory easier.

"Against all reason, I'm officially not crazy or concussed," Eliot says.

"So back to Fillory, eh?" Josh nods, pulling an impressed face. "Knew you were destined for greatness, man." Josh always managed to roll with the weirder things around Brakebills, seemingly never nonplussed by anything; Eliot's jealous of his ability to adapt and accept every strange thing in the magical world with such easy grace. Josh points at the crown still in Eliot's hand. "Want a bag for that? If you're not going to wear it?"

"If you've got a spare one." Eliot already feels bad for taking some of Penny's old clothes, but maybe he can send them something from Fillory, once he's back there. Maybe they can even set up a portal from Fillory to Earth. Eliot and Margo had talked about it, but portals were so difficult, and besides alcohol, indoor plumbing, and decent chefs, Fillory wasn't lacking much else. Accordingly, Margo had decided they should make a clean cut of it. Embrace their position as good rulers by abandoning their old home completely. But now that he's back… the idea is starting to seem more appealing. He could come back here, maybe. Drop by. Get Margo some books, pick up some vodka, find out how Teddy's doing with his karate classes.

Eliot's eyes feel hot and he's glad to have a distraction when Josh rummages under the counter and gives him a rumpled canvas bag.

"We had some store bags made but Julia and Quentin had a shit-fit at the first batch," Josh shrugs. "Don't see what's wrong with ‘em myself."

"Shit-fit is maybe too-strong a descriptor," Julia says, frowning at Josh. "It's not wrong to want our store name spelled correctly."

After putting his crown inside, Eliot straightens out the bag to look at it. _Fillory & Farther: Books, Finding, & Repairs. _He feels like he's missing something.

"A little bit of White-Out, they'd read _Further,_ " Josh shrugs, and Eliot glances at the door. _Fillory & Further._ Oh. One would think that someone who'd spent so long staring at that door yesterday might have picked up on that, but then, Eliot hadn't exactly been staring at the lettering; he’d had other things to focus on.

"We can't _White-Out_ a product we charge for," Julia says instantly, obviously an old argument, "not even for something that only costs a buck."

Josh snorts. "I distinctly remember Quentin trying to take White-Out to a copy of the last Harry Potter book." He glances at Eliot. "The man hates an epilogue, what can I say."

 _Words that make sense to me_ , Eliot thinks, but doesn't say out loud.

Julia leans on the counter and glances at Eliot. "You ready to go? Because you should probably say goodbye to Q before you do. If you don't do it in person, I'll never hear the end of it. There's a reason I spent seventh grade calling him Quentin Coldwhiner."

"I'm sure he wouldn't complain that much," Eliot says, but the words come out without heat, because the idea of leaving without seeing Quentin again seems to be sparking some sort of stomachache. Maybe his body's just not used to Earth cuisine after a decade of Fillorian food. Or he's suffering from opium-withdrawal.

"Speak of the devil," Josh says, and Eliot turns rapidly. It's too fast, that's the only explanation Eliot has for why he’s suddenly dizzy, seeing Quentin coming towards him.

Quentin's hair is pulled back in another messy bun and he looks sweaty, like he's been doing some hard manual labor in the last couple of hours.

"Your client happy, Q?" Julia asks as he draws up alongside her.

"She's in with Kady now." Quentin checks around to see if the store is empty, but still lowers his voice to a cautious whisper. "When we got the locket open, we discovered a mild curse inside."

Julia blanches. "Shit. You okay?"

"It scorched one of my mats, but I had shields up. It was only a mild blood malediction and it couldn't even land, I was too quick for it. Germanic in origin, I think. I backward-engineered it to pull out the signature and Kady's with the client now, trying to narrow down who could have wanted to hex her."

Eliot tries not to look too impressed at how casually Quentin's talking about it; dodging a curse is difficult enough, but to be able to pull it apart to find a signature, and in mere hours…. Jesus. Eliot's glad Margo never met Quentin; she had a nose for talent like that, and she'd have adopted the kid in under an hour.

On the other hand, Eliot is suddenly hit with an intense desire for Quentin and Margo to meet. He thinks about what Kady said, how they might all have been on the same Welters team, had Eliot not gotten thrown out of Brakebills. Eliot's never really regretted it. He'd been on a massive downwards spiral. He had needed to be thrown out of the school, it had been the only thing that had kicked his dire drug spiral. But for a moment, he can imagine standing in the Brakebills black-and-white Welters colors, lining up on the court alongside Quentin, and Margo, and Kady, and some other nebulous figure—another girl, maybe, a nerd Margo would adopt so she could hit on her and not bother Eliot and Quentin—

If he closes his eyes, Eliot can almost see it. He wants to. He wants to lean in and ask them if they're happy, in this other timeline. He wants to ask if it's better for him there, if there's more for him to do than stand uselessly alongside random Fillorian members of court...

The bell on the door rings out melodically; it seems to snap the moment for everyone. Eliot comes out of his daydreams and Quentin straightens, pushing his shoulders back and assuming a blank expression. This is the mask Quentin wears around his son, Eliot thinks. This version of Quentin who pretends he isn't a magician. Eliot's heart hurts, that Quentin feels he has to hide so much of himself from Teddy. Eliot's known Teddy for a hot second, and would honestly already go to war for him; he thinks Teddy would handle the knowledge well. But he's not Teddy's father. He can't make that decision.

And it's all a moot point, anyway. He's probably never going to see Teddy again.

"Is Lipson gone already?" Quentin nods at Eliot, but he's looking to Julia for the answer.

"Yeah." Julia spares their browsing customer a surreptitious side-glance. "Penny gave her a lift back to school."

"I'm clear to go," Eliot confirms and quirks one side of his mouth into a sly smile. "Apparently I'm not insane at all. Who knew?"

"All right, all right," Julia grumbles, "I feel like some healthy skepticism never goes amiss."

"So you have a plan on how to—" Quentin pauses, searching for the phrase, "find your way home?"

Eliot shrugs. "I'll retrace my steps. The guy who lives there probably isn’t home _all_ the time. And chances are, I'll have people looking for me too."

"Good." Quentin presses his mouth into a line. "Because I was, well—"

"Words are your friends, Q," Julia says, bumping her elbow into his arm and grinning at him.

Quentin gives her a frustrated look. "We've got maps downstairs, is all. Maybe Eliot needed one."

Eliot thinks about it. There's a good spell, actually, one he could do with a physical map. Then he wouldn't have to guess, he'd _know_ exactly where to go.

"That wouldn't hurt, actually," Eliot admits. He doesn't need it, technically. But another few minutes with Quentin… When Eliot glances at Julia, she has a highly knowing expression on her face, like Eliot is being completely obvious about this _maybe_ -crush he might be nurturing for her best friend. It's stupid to give it another second's thought, especially as Quentin already has a girlfriend. A really hot girlfriend. And Alice is competent, too, which makes sense now Eliot knows how good a magician Quentin is.

"Great, c'mon," Quentin says, and Eliot follows. He focuses on hooking the canvas bag with his crown in over his elbow because otherwise he might just stare at Quentin's ass again.

Which… is the real secret to how he ended up in this mess all along.

Yes, to be fair, Quentin's son _did_ fling a door in his face. But it is Eliot's fault for standing and gaping at the shop's door, _Fillory and Further_ (not Farther!) painted so neatly in gold on the glass. At first it had been seeing his kingdom's name in such an elegant font. It had been so reassuring to see it after the day he'd had. But then he'd caught sight of Quentin's ass through those golden letters and it had been impossible to look away.

Right until the moment it was impossible to see anything for a while; the door smacking into his face had seen to that. It's embarrassing. When he gets back to Margo, he's going to avoid mentioning the part of the story where he got smacked in the face with a door due to ass-related hypnosis.

The truth is, Quentin has a perfect ass. _Perfect._ There's no ass quite like it on Fillory. Eliot should know. He's spent ten years trying to find an ass even _half_ as fine as Quentin Coldwater's. Of course it's an unavailable ass; Eliot doesn't know why there isn't a queue a mile long outside the bookshop door of people desperate to catch a glimpse. Julia could charge admission.

Thinking about Quentin's ass does stop him from staring shamelessly at it, so when Quentin stops suddenly at the bottom of the stairs, and turns, he fortunately doesn't catch Eliot in the act.

"Shit," Quentin says.

Eliot stares at him. "If that's what your map is made of, the locator spell I was thinking of might not be compatible."

Quentin throws a sarcastic smile at him. "I think you've somehow already spent too much time with Julia."

"Excuse you, my delightful wit is homegrown."

"Well, I forgot Kady borrowed my maps last week and hasn't given them back yet. We've gotta go back up." Quentin pauses. "Or you can stay down here."

And miss out on several prime chances to check out Quentin's ass in a socially acceptable manner, by insisting he follow him up two flights of stairs? "I'll follow you," Eliot says, selflessly gesturing for Quentin to go past him.

"Thanks," Quentin says, oblivious to Eliot's machinations.

"What is it exactly that Kady and Penny do?" Eliot asks. "I didn't really manage to narrow it down last night."

"They're basically... magical PIs," Quentin says. He still gestures as he talks even as he climbs the stairs. "If there's anything or anyone people want to find, they're both experts at finding it. Kady's mom was a hedgewitch, so her connections are unusual for people from _our_ side of the magical world."

"Ah, that pesky magical school elitism," Eliot offers, neglecting to mention that he and Margo are both masters of that sort of judgment. At least it's a good gauge—if Eliot and Margo are out-snobbed by someone in Fillory, they know not to make a royal alliance with them.

"Exactly! And there's so much Brakebills didn't teach us. The first time they ever tell us about demons being actually real and not purely theoretical is when they strip us down and shove one in our backs? _Really?"_

Eliot snorts. "Yeah, that fuckery at least isn’t geographically restricted. And they neglect to tell you how much it hurts when it's climbing out of you."

"I wouldn't know. It's not like there's been an excuse to use mine,” Quentin says.

“You haven’t?” Eliot raises his eyebrows and his eyes automatically dart to Quentin's back. The hot pink t-shirt stretches fetchingly over Quentin's back. Eliot thinks he can even see the faint hints of the demon trap beneath the pink fabric. To have to carry a cacodemon that long…

Quentin pulls a wry face. “The Upper East Side isn’t exactly crawling with magical dangers."

"Maybe New York _has_ improved since I was last here," Eliot says. "Disappointingly, I can’t say the same for Fillory. I had to use mine to intimidate some Lorians."

Quentin nearly trips over the next step; Eliot reaches up and steadies him, putting a hand on Quentin's waist. Quentin shudders and looks at Eliot thankfully.

"I nearly entirely forgot how to climb stairs." Quentin looks at Eliot with wide-eyes; he smiles, the edges wobbly, shaken by the near-miss of a fall. "It's hard to remember you came from Fillory. Lorians. Wow." He whispers that _wow_ almost to himself.

"They're assholes," Eliot offers. "But not as much as the Floating Island guys." Eliot might never let that go. "The Stone Queen sent us a delegation of Spear-Bearers and they take their spears everywhere. Even into the hot springs."

"Uh," Quentin says. "Well, that doesn't sound normal."

"Exactly," Eliot says. "It isn't."

Quentin blinks a few times and then swallows, and shakily points up the stairs. "Let's keep going."

Eliot flushes and pulls back when he realizes his hand is still steadying Quentin. "Lead on," he says, probably too loudly, to compensate for the sudden awkwardness.

" _Fillory,_ though," Quentin mumbles, like he still can't wrap his head around it.

Eliot doesn't blame him. Now he's had a bit of time to deal with it himself, he tries to think about how he'd feel if someone came to him and insisted they came from Hogwarts. Eliot would probably still be laughing, even if they'd handed Eliot a working Golden Snitch. (Eliot vaguely recalls that being someone's thesis project at Peyrelade. It hadn't worked—the golden ball that this particular magician had made seemed to think _it_ was the Seeker, and it chased its creator all around the Château for a week.)

"I'm an immigrant,” Eliot says. "Fillory treats immigrants better than most places."

Quentin huffs an amused breath. "Where are you from, originally?"

"Indiana," Eliot says, and then resists the urge to facepalm, because what the hell? He _never_ responds to that question with the truth. Wow. Well, what's the harm with Quentin knowing the truth? Eliot's stomach rumbles unhappily. It's not like he'll be seeing Quentin again any time soon.

"My condolences," Quentin says. "Not that I can judge." Quentin tosses a quick wry look over his shoulder. "New Jersey."

"I guess one cannot control the circumstances of one's birth."

"Exactly. Or Teddy would have been born actually in the hospital and not in the lobby." Quentin laughs. "He's always been impatient, right from the start."

"I bet they still charged you the same amount for the delivery."

"Actually, if I’m recalling it correctly, they tried to charge us extra for the mess."

"I do not miss the American healthcare system," Eliot says, glad to be reminded of something else Fillory did well. Margo had taken over Chatwin's Torrent early in her reign, implementing a sliding payment-scale, so every Fillorian could enjoy healing without having to be cursed too.

Quentin makes a face at that which probably shouldn't be so attractive. As he opens the door, his face changes into a much more polite expression.

Eliot can see why when a dark-haired pretty woman in her mid-forties passes through, dimpling a smile at Quentin. She's wearing a pink and purple shellsuit, but with bright red heels. It reminds Eliot of when Margo tried to read him the first Harry Potter book, and all the wizards who thought they knew how to dress like a muggle and failed. If this is what fashion has become while Margo and he have been in Fillory, Eliot's glad they left; Margo would rather wear a potato sack than what this woman is wearing.

Although… Margo would probably manage to make the potato sack work, now that he comes to think of it.

"Mr. Coldwater," the woman says, in a throaty southern drawl.

"Uh, Mrs. Abbeyhill," Quentin mutters, unable to look her in the eyes.

"That's _Ms._ Abbeyhill now." The woman—Ms. Abbeyhill presumably, leans in closer to Quentin. "You can call me Patricia. Thank you _so_ much for your help." She puts a well-manicured hand on Quentin's elbow; Quentin flinches and then looks embarrassed. Ms. Patricia Abbeyhill pulls her hand away, suddenly disgruntled. "But you can tell your frizzy-haired companion that she's no help at all," she adds. She shoots Eliot a speculative look, but something in his face must show that she's not Eliot's type, because she throws her nose up in the air and clacks off down the stairs, muttering under her breath.

Quentin looks sheepishly across at Eliot, who rolls his eyes. Ms. Patricia Abbeyhill reminds Eliot of Tick Pickwick, somehow. He wonders if they're distant relations. Margo has theorized plenty of times that the Fillorians had to be from Earth originally, because how else do they all speak a form of English that hasn't deviated much from modern English? Eliot wonders if there's not an enchantment on Fillory, designed to make everyone on Fillory understand each other—hence all the talking animals—but he's not a motivated enough scholar to do the research to find out for sure.

Quentin walks Eliot past the room Eliot had his check-up in, and leads him on to the office beyond. _Fillory and Further Investigations_ is printed on this door in neat, simple black letters. K. ORLOFF-DIAZ and W.P. ADIYODI is painted below. The font is straightforward, no curlicues or other flourishes. Much like Kady herself, Eliot thinks.

Quentin knocks politely on the door.

"I suppose you can come in," Kady snarls.

When Eliot peers around Quentin, Kady's already looking up apologetically.

"It's only me," Quentin says.

"I thought you were that ratty-haired bitch back again," Kady says. "That fucking _woman._ "

"Did she think you could figure out the curse provenance instantaneously?" Quentin asks, leaning against the door, folding his arms across his chest. Eliot hovers behind him, looking past into Kady's office. Eliot had been able to glimpse it briefly earlier, but he hadn't been able to take in the details. The decorations are warm, almost cozy, the exact opposite of what Eliot would have picked for someone like Kady. There's fabric hanging up on one of the walls that resembles a scarf Penny had been wearing yesterday, a beautiful crimson pattern inlaid with intricate golden flowers that wouldn't look out of place in Whitespire.

"Oh, we know who cursed her," Kady shoves herself up from her chair, arching her neck and rolling her shoulders. "She spent _an hour_ listing everyone she's ever known before admitting her first ex-husband was Enzo Dinelli."

"Who?" Eliot asks.

"Dinelli is pretty much the hedgewitch mastermind behind _all_ the minor blood malediction curse cases on the east coast," Quentin puffs his cheeks out. "That's probably why I was able to deflect it so easily." He glances directly at Eliot. "There was a thing last summer with a cursed harmonica. Took me seven weeks to fix it, every single note had a different counter-resonance. I got pretty handy with my shields for that one."

Kady grins. "He neglects to mention Julia had to dye his hair back to brown before Teddy got home from school after one of those curses zapped all the color from it."

"One of my armpits still only has white hair," Quentin sighs. "No matter how many times I try and shave it."

Eliot has to swallow back the urge to ask to see it.

"You need something?" Kady asks, looking between them.

"Yeah," Quentin says. "Only if it's not a bother—the maps you borrowed for the Grundy case?"

"Nearly done with them," Kady says, beckoning them in. "I'm on the last one now."

Eliot hovers by Quentin's shoulder, padding into the office, watching as Kady crosses to a table in the corner. It's a large one that reminds him of the table in the Whitespire War Room that Eliot and Margo haven't had to use yet. Well, they’ve never had to use it for the formal reason. Eliot's taken more than a few of his conquests down there. The table's covered in a very soft leather that's comfortable _and_ easy to clean up. Hey, a King has to maintain his slightly-slutty reputation somehow _._ He's distracted for a second wondering if Quentin would be amenable to it, in a world where Eliot could take him back to Fillory with him. His brain is halfway-through imagining Quentin somewhere nicer, with a bed, or maybe a soft colorful blanket spread out beneath the stars, when he remembers Quentin will be staying on Earth. With his son. And his beautiful girlfriend.

Oh well. It's a nice imaginary dalliance, and Eliot re-shelves it in his mind to explore later.

"What are you trying to do?" Eliot asks, looking down at the paraphernalia lined up beside the map. It looks like a Bylsma's Reverse Invocation, but the tuts for that are insanely complicated. His estimation of Kady's abilities take a sharp curve upwards. He needs to remember that straight-forward people can be capable of the most complex, intricate, subtle magic.

"Bylsma's Reverse Invocation," Kady says, and Eliot sticks a mental middle-finger up at Monsieur Bisset, who used to loudly insist that Eliot's deductive capabilities were as good as a slug's. "Our client, Grundy, has a box of paperwork he wants tracking down. We've narrowed it down to Brooklyn. We have a chip of the box—" she gestures at the small piece of wood in a small stone bowl, "but no title, no description—" Kady shrugs. "But every time I cast it, nothing's coming up. And I _know_ it has to be here somewhere. Greenhouse's Gander lands it squarely in North America. There's echoes of it from the coast to the edge of Brooklyn. Bylsma should be picking up a trace of it."

Eliot peers down at the map, thinking. "If you have a woodchip as your source trace, why don't you do an inverted Bazelaire Revel?" Eliot looks at Kady speculatively. "It'll get you down to a two block radius, but then you can go there and physically cast Nelsova's Retrieval; if you're good enough to do Bylsma, Nelsova's should be a walk in the park for you—"

Kady stares at Eliot, eyebrow raised. "An inverted Bazelaire Revel? I don't even know what the fuck an _uninverted_ one does."

Eliot rolls up his sleeves and passes his bag to Quentin, who accepts it like it's normal to be handed things. Maybe that's what parenthood does to you. He approaches Kady's set-up, his eyes roving over the map.

"May I?" Eliot asks, hand hovering over the ingredients Kady has for the Bylsma. There's easy overlap for the Revel, he doesn't need any other equipment.

This is what Eliot's own final year thesis had been on: the optimal, most efficient and cost-effective basic set of ingredients for a standard magician to keep in their homes, to make magic easier. What substitutions you could make and have a spell still do what you wanted it to do. Eliot had it down to eighty-seven items by the time he submitted his final paper. He was fairly certain you could eliminate another five, but the reason he never got around to figuring that out was the whole _unmotivated scholar_ thing raising its head again.

"I thought a Bazelaire Revel was a plant thing," Quentin says.

"It is," Eliot says. "Usually used to help find out if a sugar maple tree is the right age to harvest to help make a more protected foundation stone. But if you use dried basil instead of fresh—" Eliot moves the small jar of dried herbs into the middle of the map, twisting open the lid and smiling at the smell, "—and add in the first half of Popper 12 to the middle, it should allow you to find the most warded places in your area. Nearly every ward in North America uses a sugar maple foundation base."

"I already knew the Bylsma wouldn't work if the item was in a heavily warded location," Kady says. "That's why I was working over it with the Gander in its attenuated form. But it's slow going."

"Yeah, having to do _that_ ten thousand times for a map this size would take you a week," Eliot says.

"Okay," Kady nods. "So show me this inverted Bazelaire Revel. I'm a quick study."

"The great thing about it is it's easy. And it should reduce the number of attenuated Ganders you'd need to do _dramatically_ ," Eliot agrees, smiling at her as he flexes his fingers. "Let's see if Daddy's going to get lucky today."

It's been a while since he's had to cast any major spell that isn't flashy Battle magic, but Eliot's retained the muscle memory of this spell, and he quickly performs it at each corner of the map. Two zones on the map flash. On instinct, Eliot aims for the one that's on the right-hand side, curls his fingers effortlessly into the attenuated form of Greenhouse's Gander, picking the river that leads up to the zone on instinct, and is rewarded by a faint splash of pink that dives directly into the zone the Bazelaire picked up on.

"And bingo was his name-o," Eliot grins, dramatically. "You should probably check both of the hotspots, but I think you've got your probable location."

"I don't even need the Nelsova if it's that one, those two blocks cover one bank," Kady sighs. "Fuck."

"Never discount a good bank heist," Eliot rolls his sleeves back down and reaches his hand out for his crown back. Quentin mutely hands the bag over.

"I'm glad you stopped by," Kady says, crouching down next to the table. "The Manhattan map, that's the one you need, right?"

"Yeah," Quentin takes the roll of paper she hands out to him. "We'll be down in my workshop if you need me for anything."

"Don't think I'll need you, Coldwater," Kady says. "But while you're at it, consider giving this one the wrong location. I could use someone like him in this office, and if he can't go home, I'd _definitely_ hire him."

" _This one_ has a name," Eliot says.

Kady rolls her eyes. "If you’re leaving, then I don't have to remember it."

Eliot refrains from mentioning that she'd remembered his name after meeting him once over a decade ago. Gods, he loves being that memorable. "Lovely meeting you again, Kady," Eliot says, inclining a small bow as they head out.

Eliot's feeling pretty good about that interaction. He'd forgotten how satisfying it was to do _magic._ Actually useful magic. It's a headrush.

"We can take this to my workshop, there'll be room there to check this out," Quentin says, beckoning Eliot to follow him again.

Eliot's glad Quentin can't see his face as he heads down the stairs head of him. The word 'workshop' has very specific, very traumatic, associations for him, and he can't help react negatively whenever he hears it.

When Eliot thinks _workshop_ , he mentally re-experiences the outside barn that his dad used for fixing up his engines, or doing woodwork, or making stuff out of metal. All these things were activities Eliot's father expected his sons to master. When Eliot brought home the permission slip to join the drama department, Eliot's father dropped it right into the wood chipper (his mom signed the second one Eliot shamefacedly brought home the following day.)

It's been years, and Eliot's a King now, so he's bracing himself to enter a room that smells of sweat and testosterone, determined to remain steady. Quentin is so soft and gentle, so at least that's one thing about this situation that isn't likely to bring back unpleasant associations.

When Quentin opens the room and gestures for Eliot to follow, Eliot does, not even a moment of hesitation, because even though he's wary, he _trusts_ Quentin now. Maybe it's the Brakebills connection. Or because Eliot's seen how devoted he is to his child. Eliot doesn't normally consider himself a kid person, but it's difficult to dislike Teddy, even if the kid _did_ slug a door full force into Eliot's face.

When Eliot finally sees the room in front of him, he has to take a moment to stop and stare.

It's _nothing_ like he'd expected.

It's not wooden worktops and sawdust and the smell of oil, old tools pinned against the wall, odds-and-ends of projects scattered around. After spending a few hours (invasively) tidying up Quentin's apartment, Eliot had expected a fair amount of clutter, too.

But this is nothing like that. It's...almost beautiful.

If Eliot had to describe the aesthetics of it to a stranger, he'd say it was set up like a scientific laboratory. It's a long, narrow room, almost like a hallway. It's a little cold. The floor is covered in large, pale blue tiles that are immaculately clean. There are long white worktops around the room displaying several pieces of diagnostic equipment. There are tools like in Eliot's dad's workshop, but they're laid out in ascending size order, clearly labeled. The walls are painted a light blue and there's a mild artificial scent to the room. There's a row of white aprons and labcoats along one wall; Quentin makes a move like he's about to pick one up and then falters, looking at the tube of paper in his hand, obviously realizing he doesn't need any protective clothing. There's a whole wall of different goggles, protective ones, analytical ones, all hung up on a white pegboard, each pair with a pale blue painted outline and a printed label underneath.

Quentin doesn't notice that Eliot's not following him until he's almost at the largest table at the end of the room, a waist-height square white table with white leather mats on it. One of the mats has a gray scorch mark across it.

"Oh," Quentin says, seeing Eliot still hovering near the door. "You can come in. It's okay. I know it seems clinical, not as comfortable as everywhere else—"

Eliot hurries in, his shoes clacking against the tiles, the sound echoing around him. There's no wood. No sawdust. Nothing that even remotely triggers Eliot to remember those horrible days of his chidhood at all. "I have to admit, it's cleaner than I expected it to be."

A faint flush appears on Quentin's cheeks. In the hot pink t-shirt, he looks incongruous in the clinical room. "Yeah, after my apartment I guess you were expecting another bombsite, huh?" Quentin fidgets with the edges of the map. "I might be a bit of a scatterbrained homemaker but some of the things I work with in here are flammable. It's more of a priority to keep this room clean." Quentin looks down, starting to unroll the map. "Plus, more people tend to come in here and I can pretend more easily I have it together."

"Hey," Eliot says, edging closer, "you're doing great."

Quentin's smile is too brief, and it doesn't reach his eyes. "Sure."

"Tell me a bit about this room, though." Eliot raps gently on the table with a knuckle. Whoever fucked Quentin Coldwater up is a dick, and Quentin probably needs a lifetime of occasional but consistent soft validation. Eliot has to remind himself that he's only here temporarily. He can't be that person. He hopes like hell for Quentin's sake that Alice can be. "Everything else here seems a bit Brakebills. This is….definitely not like that shithole."

Quentin startles into a laugh and then looks ashamed of himself for finding that amusing. "Brakebills had its charms," Quentin says, in a fake stern voice, before relenting, "and we've talked about our unnatural attraction to its color schemes. It's fake nostalgia. I don't even think we had that great a time there. But we met Kady and Penny there, and we learned _magic,_ and I don't think we're ever going to take that for granted. It's nice to have a visual reminder of the good parts of the past."

"And this hospital-style décor does that for you too?"

"Oh. Um." Quentin focuses on unrolling the map and using the leather mats on the table to hold the corners of it down. "There was this excursion we went on. Um. It was—to teach us about Circumstances?”

“And they put you in a hospital for that?”

“Not a hospital. A hospital might have been nicer. Uh, they sent us to a second campus in Antarctica. Each room was set up to have constantly shifting Circumstances, and so we spent an entire semester there repeating everything we learned in First Year. Until we could do all the tuts without thinking about them? It was tough, but, yeah, I think I learned a lot from it."

"Brakebills South. I heard a few rumors about that." Eliot wrinkles his nose. "I heard a lot of not-so-good stuff too."

"How did you learn about Circumstances, then?"

"Peyrelade didn't have to send us away, it had a campus set up for that purpose onsite."

Quentin smooths his fingers over the map and Eliot tries desperately not to think about those capable fingers running along any part of _him_ with such gentle care. "If it was onsite, I guess you didn’t have to be turned into a goose to get to it, huh?”

"God, no, animal transformation is so fucked up. Messes with you. Gives you all the wrong hormones, you can do some real messed up shit in animal form," Eliot trails off when he sees Quentin staring at him. "You're shitting me. They turned you into _geese?_ ”

"Yeah," Quentin runs a hand through his hair, pushing back some of the loose strands. Eliot is disappointed that it's tied back, because he has the feeling it looks nice down. He feels a pang of regret he'll never get to see it. Unless he can surreptitiously use his telekinesis to snap the hair tie… "We had to, so we could fly to Antarctica?"

" _Had_ to," Eliot repeats, in disbelief, frowning at Quentin in horror. "Like portals don't exist? Jesus. _This_ is why I fucking acted out at Brakebills in the first place. Those teachers are fucking _crazy._ Peyrelade was strict and tough but they never fucking— _Geese?_ "

"And foxes, later." Quentin looks confused now, like it had never occurred to him to be outraged by what had happened to him.

" _Foxes_ ," Eliot repeats. Holy fuck. "They're—we had to get permission if we wanted to turn into anything smaller than a bear because of the reduced cognitive function. And you're telling me the teachers...turned you into geese? And _foxes?"_

"It seemed like it was perfectly normal," Quentin mutters.

"Fox brains can't handle anything but like, food and fucking."

Quentin looks away, his hands shaking. "That's pretty much what everyone did but me, I think. Mayakovsky—that was our professor—he was so surprised that all I did as a fox was run and hide. And possibly hump an old shoe someone left lying out in the snow. Kady said I did that, but I’m not sure if she’s messing with me.”

“It’s not a crime to like a nice shoe,” Eliot says.

“Most people found other foxes. I, uh, I suppose I made a pretty anxious animal. The professor found me huddling in an outbuilding and felt sorry for me, I guess. Ended up showing me his lab. And it looked a bit like this one. He said if I wasn't going to use my time usefully as a fox by, uh, fucking other foxes, I might as well fuck with my mind."

"Jesus, what a human shit stain."

"Good summary." Quentin quirks a brief smile. "Jules and I found out later that the guy got stranded there because he got caught fucking a student.”

“Well, _that_ tracks for a pervert getting his kicks turning students into foxes.”

“ _Anyway_ , he took pity on me and let me see everything he was working on. He was fucking insane, but he was still a master magician. The things he was working on… right up until that moment, I'd had this idea that I was clever. I mean Jesus, I know it sounds conceited, I know we're _all_ smart, as a magician you have to be, but I had this idea that maybe one day—" Quentin trails off and shrugs. "It was stupid to even think it."

"One day?" Eliot prompts. "It's rude to lead a guy on. You can't tease without the follow-through."

Quentin throws him a brief irritated glance. "Okay, but promise not to mock me."

"I promise nothing."

Quentin huffs. "Fine. Laugh. Someone might as well get something out of it. I thought… I thought I might _one day_ be a master magician too." Quentin's mouth presses into a line. "Childish thought, I know. I've always...been a bit of a slow developer. What am I even thinking? I didn't even get my Discipline until my final year."

"It's not a childish thought," Eliot says. "Sure there's not a lot of magicians who reach master status, but there's enough. It's possible. You wanted it back then. Why not now?"

"Now I have a kid. And we're running three businesses at once between the four of us."

"But you'd still want it, if you had the time. Enough to model your own workshop in a way that would help you achieve it."

"I guess. But it's a moot point. Life is what it is."

"So get some help," Eliot shrugs. "Julia was saying last night about how you needed another person around. Maybe you'd have more time then and could work on it."

"Even if we find someone, I'm just a minor mender—"

"Nothing _just_ about that. I thought we covered already how special the mending disciplines are."

Quentin's eye twitches and he stares down at the perfect tiles. "I guess."

"There’s no point trashing the idea wholesale. Maybe you'll be a Master Magician one day. Maybe you won't. Based on what I've heard about your magic even in this small amount of time, I think you could do it. Where's the harm in trying? Time will pass the same, either way."

Quentin throws him a skeptical glance. "You're very kind," he says, after a moment.

Eliot can hear the dismissal in it. Gods, who took this wonderful man and made it so hard for him to accept a simple-ass _compliment_? Eliot wants to find the person responsible and put glitter in everything they own.

"Kind?" Eliot repeats, scrunching up his nose.

"That's what I said."

"Ew, god, no, never utter that to another person, ever, I'll disavow everything. And insult a puppy on top. Right to its face." Eliot shakes his head firmly. "Kind? Me? Eliot _Waugh?_ Perish the thought. I resent everything that's led up to this vile accusation."

Quentin laughs, looking grateful that the serious mood has been broken. "Fine, you're terrible. Cleaned my apartment, cooked me breakfast, showed me a glimpse of my favorite fantasy land that's not a fantasy. Very unkind man, that King."

"That's me. King Eliot the Unkind."

Quentin looks skeptical again. "Really?"

"Okay, no. Not really."

"But you do have a royal title?"

Eliot makes an amused snort. "Do you promise not to tell anyone if I tell you?"

Quentin pulls a face. "I only know about five people who can bear to listen to me for more than a minute without dying of boredom."

"King Eliot the Spectacular."

Quentin continues to stare. "The Spectacular?"

"Mmhmm." Eliot meets his stare, and lifts his chin imperiously. "Do I not strike you as the Spectacular sort?"

"You do. It's...I don't see why it should be a secret." Quentin gestures as he talks, his eyes sparkling with amusement. "There was all that _build-up_ like it was an embarrassing story and—so maybe you're a little big-headed, spectacular is a big word to live up to—"

"Fuck you, I'm _entirely_ spectacular," Eliot sniffs, and then worries Quentin will think he's actually angry, so he adds, "But you were right. It _is_ an embarrassing tale."

Quentin leans on the table and looks up at Eliot intently. "I feel like I need to hear this explanation."

"Margo's title is also the Spectacular," Eliot says. "Margo's... my partner, in all my misadventures," he quickly adds, seeing Quentin's confusion. He keeps forgetting that Quentin wouldn't know who Margo is. "And much like your relationship with Julia, Margo and I sometimes share ownership of a single brain cell."

Quentin squints at Eliot. "I object. Julia and I have at _least_ two brain cells between us."

Eliot makes a performance of clearing his throat and he straightens his posture. "So I’ll set the scene. Margo and I, two beauties the likes of whom Fillory has never seen, standing on the crest of a beautiful hillside, wind whipping through our well-coiffed hair and rippling capes. Two crowns, ready to put on our fair heads. One old knight, the Knight of Crowns, standing in his armor of old, waiting to bestow our royal titles and lead Fillory into a shining new era of prosperity and grace.”

“The coronation spot beyond the Rainbow Bridge?” Quentin asks. “Was the bridge as pretty as it sounds in the book?”

“I have no idea,” Eliot says, probably too quickly. He doesn’t want Quentin to know that his refusal to read the Fillory books has been a soft spot Margo’s spent years digging at. “Margo seemed to think so.”

“Did you do the spell Martin used to find it?”

Eliot narrows his eyes. “Am I telling the story or are you?”

Quentin holds his hands up and mimes zipping his mouth shut.

“So there we were, the Knight of Crowns tested us as aspirants to the throne, and we passed his test—which was to quote nineties movies. Did I mention yet how ridiculous Fillory is? Because it is _ridiculous._ ”

“You didn’t mention that yet, but I’ll make a mental note of it.”

“And then he told us we could be crowned and go on our way. But we decided we should have titles. And on this gorgeous landscape, where Margo and I both looked handsome and dashing, we bickered like five-year-olds for three hours over who was the _most_ spectacular. The Knight of Crowns got tired of us by then and had to give us the same title so we'd stop screaming at each other. It was scaring the locals, apparently."

"So King Eliot the Spectacular and Queen Margo the Spectacular of Fillory."

"At first, it was High King Eliot the Spectacular and Queen Margo the Spectacular. But now it's King Eliot the Spectacular and High King Margo the Spectacular and honestly keeping a straight face in every royal announcement is very difficult." Eliot leans in closer because he can't help himself. "Keeping _anything_ straight is very difficult for me, personally."

Quentin's faint flush of embarrassment definitely shifts into a stronger shade and he coughs and tenses his shoulders as he turns to the map, drumming his fingers on it. "We should, uh, we should definitely do what we came down here to do."

Eliot smiles and takes pity on Quentin, stepping away. Quentin's reaction to his subtle flirting is gratifying, and oddly disappointing, all at once. It means that had the lovely Alice not been in the picture, Eliot might have had a fighting chance to seduce Quentin Coldwater after all.

He'd have asked Quentin if he could fuck him down here, among the clinical tables. Quentin obviously spends hours down here by necessity. The idea of Quentin never being able to work in here again without remembering Eliot around him, _inside_ him...

Eliot's glad of the cool air down in the basement workshop. He has to take a few steadying breaths and pretend he's frowning at the map.

"We're here," Quentin murmurs, pointing his finger at the map. "Do you remember a street name, or a landmark?"

Eliot peers at the map. "I got to Central Park _here,_ " he says, recognizing the road layout where he'd stumbled into the haven of nature, Manhattan's secret heart. "But before I got there I ran for about ten minutes." He winces as he remembers it. "Getting a knife waved at me scrambled my brain."

"I bet it did," Quentin says, warmth suffusing his words. He's the real kind one here, Eliot thinks. Who goes to these lengths for a stranger? Even if Teddy _had_ hit Eliot with a door, Quentin's ethical responsibility ended hours ago, before dinner, before letting him stay overnight in Quentin's own bed.

It's why Eliot had to get up so early and start to clean in the first place. Lying in those sheets, clearly surrounded by Quentin's scent, it was either do something extremely indecent, or be actually helpful to the man nice enough to uproot his son so that Eliot didn't have to sleep on the streets.

"Because you've been through the portal in the last twenty-four hours, and there's two of us here, we don't even have to do anything really fancy," Quentin says. "Only a—"

"Fitzenhagen's Back-step," Eliot chimes in, at exactly the same time and cadence Quentin says it.

Quentin smiles. "Yeah. If you hold up your hand—or do you need to go over the German?"

"I think I can remember two lines of German."

"Just checking." Quentin's grin widens and Eliot has to tear his gaze away from it because Quentin is too beautiful when he smiles, and Eliot thinks about how easy it would be to forget about Alice, to lean in and kiss that inviting pink mouth. He can picture it, how pliant Quentin would go if he slid a hand around his neck. Quentin's eyes always seemed to be lit up with some great amusing secret, and Eliot would be able to taste that secret in the kiss.

"You have to put your hands over where you want us to start checking," Quentin says, snapping Eliot out of his pleasant daydream of tipping Quentin's head back and kissing the goddamn heck out of him.

"I know that," Eliot mumbles, and spreads his left hand into a star over the most likely spot on the map.

Quentin's German is softer than Eliot's expecting, a southern inflection to the words, but once they match up on that, the spell takes effect quickly. The map is big enough that Eliot can even _see_ his tiny little footprints on the page. God, what an extra spell. Whoever Fitzenhagen was, Eliot thinks they may have gotten on.

"Might be able to Google that," Quentin murmurs, leaning in closer to examine where the footsteps began. Eliot squints too, trying not to stare too much at the zig-zag path of his frantic fleeing.

Eliot stares at Quentin. "Should I leave you alone for that?"

Quentin's head lurches upwards at speed. "You know Harry Potter but you missed _Google—_ " Quentin notices Eliot's smirk and he huffs in exasperated amusement. "Oh, you're fucking with me. Thanks."

Eliot's smirk widens. "Couldn't resist."

"Yeah, bet you couldn't," Quentin says, moving to the back of the room. "I suppose it’s a good thing that you’re leaving, after all. You and Julia together for longer than a few hours would not be a good combination for my calm."

Eliot knows it's a joke, but his stomach twists anyway.

"Not that you wouldn't be very welcome to stay longer," Quentin continues, his back still to Eliot, and Eliot holds back on a sigh of relief. By the time Quentin turns around, the object of his search in his hands now—a white laptop that fits the cool aesthetic of the workshop—Eliot's pretty sure his face isn't doing anything weird. "This should only take a minute."

Eliot nods politely and steps back, letting Quentin do his thing, because he might _know_ what a computer is, but Eliot doesn't really know how to use one. It seems like Quentin is awkward enough on it, jabbing at the keys like he's having to hunt for each one.

"Oh, that's interesting," Quentin breathes, and Eliot steps closer, peering over Quentin's shoulder. "First thing that even came up online when I typed in that street address. It's an—auction site? Penny’s addicted to them. We have to stop him buying weird stuff all the time. Uh, auction sites are where people sell their shit online."

"Sounds perverted, I like it," Eliot murmurs.

"But I mean, how can this be a coincidence, you're from _Fillory,_ " Quentin says, gesturing at the screen.

Eliot frowns and leans in closer and then he can't breathe for a second, because that's it. Somehow, that's _exactly it._

 _Painting for Sale,_ the page reads, and shows a blurry oil painting that looks decidedly amateurish. But to the right of it is a clock. A Grandfather clock. Intricately carved. At the top of it, a mirror image: two ram heads.

"That's Ember and Umber, isn't it?" Quentin asks.

Eliot nods numbly. That's it exactly. That's the clock he stumbled out of.

"There's no apartment number, only a streetname. But there's a phone number. I can call and ask to see the painting in person." Quentin shrugs. "You said last night you were worried the portal might be blocked. I could check that for you, without the guy having to see you."

"I'm...not sure I'm thrilled about the idea of you going on your own to meet someone like him."

Quentin waves a hand. "I can cast Fergus's Spectral Armory. Penny and Kady need it so often, I think I almost cast it in my sleep last year. I don't know how I would have explained it to Teddy."

"Yeah, I guess that could have been awkward."

"Ember and Umber, though. Have you ever met them?"

Eliot can't describe the look on Quentin's face, but he knows it has too much hope in it. "I haven't," Eliot says slowly, hoping it's the right answer. "I've never met anyone who has. The Fillorians have a lot of ceremony around them. The Castle staff often write letters to Umber and I've seen those pieces of paper disappear once they’re laid on an altar. But… I honestly don't know if they're even real."

"Yeah," Quentin says. "Yeah, I guess I don't know what I was expecting you to say."

Eliot's sad that he couldn't give Quentin a less disappointing answer. But at least it's better than the answer in Eliot's heart: that if Ember and Umber ever did exist, they obviously didn't give a shit about their own country, to let the thrones go to any human that stumbled on the land. Fillory was lucky it had been Eliot and Margo this time, because Margo cares for Fillory more than Eliot can even really comprehend.

And from Margo's deep dives into Whitespire's library, Eliot knows that Fillory hasn't been so lucky in the past. That's why they have such a problem with the continued assassination attempts. As much as Fillory loves Margo, there's still a noisy faction that wants Fillory's throne to go to a Fillorian.

"I'll give this Nigel a call now," Quentin says, half-mumbling to himself as he reaches for a landline phone that Eliot hadn't noticed until now.

Eliot pauses as he listens to the disjointed half of the conversation. Quentin has a lovely phone manner. Eliot has to work very hard not to imagine what it would be like to encounter Quentin on the other end of a sex phoneline. That note of amusement and warmth in his voice, all that teasing… yeah, Eliot's not doing a great job of not imagining it. Eliot breathes in through his nose, taking in the clinical scent of the room, focusing on that until the threatening problem in his pants goes away.

"Two o' clock is fine by me," Quentin says, as Eliot rezones back into the call. "I'm glad it's still available. Yeah. I can't guarantee to buy it, of course—yeah. Thanks. Two o' clock. I'll see you then. Bye."

"Two o' clock," Eliot repeats, after Quentin disconnects the call.

Quentin wrinkles his nose apologetically. "Best I could do. He said he still has the cops around because lunatics keep breaking into his place."

"I've had my sanity questioned _way_ too many times here."

Quentin smiles wryly. "Can you blame us? You do kinda look like you stepped out of a Renaissance painting."

Eliot tugs at the jacket and shirt he's wearing and raises an eyebrow pointedly.

"Okay, less so today," Quentin concedes.

"You don't have to do this," Eliot says. "Honestly. We've got the address now. I can go stalk the guy's apartment until he leaves—"

"I think this is safer," Quentin says. "And I—" He ducks his head "I'd like to help you get home. It would make me feel a lot better."

"Then…thank you," Eliot says, simply.

It's either that or say something that might make all those accusations of insanity more valid. Honestly, he'd probably do anything Quentin asked of him right now. It would be a dangerous thought, if Eliot was planning on staying on Earth.

But he's not. He's going home to Fillory. They found the clock right away, so that's a sign—this is going to be easy. Eliot will be home by curved-beam-over-the-pegasus-tapestry-o'clock. Back at Margo's side. Yay. If he keeps surreptitiously glancing at Quentin, at the way his forearm muscles flex when he moves things, it's probably a new coping mechanism, to distract himself from the thought that's beginning to creep into his mind:

That maybe he doesn't want to go home to Fillory quite as much as he thought he did.


	6. Quentin

Julia agrees to cover Quentin's shift right away. Which is... suspicious, but Quentin's never one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Maybe that's not the expression they use on Fillory, Quentin thinks, trying the thought out in his head for size. Maybe Eliot says _you can't look the gift Cozy Horse in the mouth_ or _you can't look a gift centaur in the mouth._ Or maybe you don't get gifts in Fillory at all, because it's considered rude; Plover didn't go into that in his world building.

Quentin is still having trouble reconciling Fillory as a real place in his mind. But Eliot's not crazy or concussed, and that vision of Castle Whitespire made something in Quentin's heart _sing_. And the fact that Quentin's path as a student _nearly_ crossed over with Eliot's, putting him only one degree removed from getting to go to Fillory too, somehow…

Quentin has to take a deep breath to ground himself back to reality. He likes what he has now. He has a secure job, he lives and works with his best friends, and he has a son he'd do anything for. Even if the path to where he is currently was rocky and it _hurt,_ he'd do it all over again, just for five minutes with Teddy.

Eliot is polite and charming while he says goodbye to Julia—she leans in and gives him an uncharacteristic hug, normally reserved for people she's known for months—while Quentin carefully props the door open while he's a distance away. Eliot already got badly injured by it once, Quentin's not going to risk letting another Coldwater hurt him with it.

There's something nice about the way Eliot's gaze sweeps around the bookshop, like he's trying to commit it to memory. It's a small, unassuming store, crammed with too many books, a scrap of a fanciful childhood dream Quentin and Julia both had once—that if Fillory was unreachable, maybe they could _sell_ Fillory to people. Make a profit out of their favorite place.

Ugh, Quentin's thoughts are drifting only because he doesn't really want to think about what's going on. Eliot's going _home._ And Quentin doesn't want to confront how that makes him feel. If he prods at his own emotions right now, he’s scared of what he’ll find.

"Let's go," Quentin says, and Eliot throws one last nod and smile at Julia, and leaves the store with Quentin.

Quentin recognizes the set to Eliot's stride. As soon as they exit, Eliot's shoulders square and he holds his head up high, without looking back. It's how Quentin left Brakebills. Penny, Kady, and Julia kept looking back, stealing glimpses, but Quentin had to keep his face forward, like Orpheus, with Brakebills as his Eurydice. If he looked back, Brakebills and magic might disappear, the last three years snatched from him like they never existed. If he looked back, Brakebills might fade away into the gray walls of a hospital, a fanciful recreation in Quentin's mind.

Eliot's not looking back. He’d make a good Orpheus.

"It's hard to block a portal for long," Quentin says.

Eliot is automatically matching Quentin's walking pace; maybe he’s used to walking next to someone dramatically shorter than him. "It depends on how desperately you want it blocked, I suppose," Eliot says, his voice stiff.

Oh, Quentin realizes. He's not ready to talk about it. As a master of catastrophizing, Quentin can empathize with that. Sometimes talking about a problem wasn't like putting a vent into your brain, sometimes it ignited the bad feelings more.

Distraction is generally a good technique. Quentin doesn't know Eliot all that well, but he knows magicians, and they like to talk about their unique experiences with other people who understand why something is so special.

Quentin surreptitiously does a minor silencing spell. He doesn't do it often as it doesn't work inside buildings, but outside, it should keep the people they pass from really paying any attention to what they say. Eliot's gaze catches on the clandestine tut and his mouth tugs to one side in a smile.

"You said earlier that the cacodemon hurts when it comes out?" Quentin glances up at him briefly, at the profile of Eliot's face that's already becoming weirdly familiar to him.

"Yeah, god, yeah," Eliot says, looking surprised at the conversation topic. "Less than when it goes in, I guess."

"I think I cried at mine," Quentin says, surprising himself with the honest offering.

"Oh, I screamed. At the top of my lungs. I was reprimanded."

"For screaming because something hurt?"

"Oh, no, for screaming in English. We were supposed to only speak in French at Peyrelade. I was probably the only student at that school ever to serve a week of detention _after_ graduating. Margo was furious."

"I'm glad you have someone who's willing to get furious on your behalf," Quentin nods. "That's important."

"I'm _sure_ she'll be looking for me by now," Eliot says.

Quentin's heart twists. There's worry in those words. A fear that Margo's not looking. "We'll get you back to her somehow." Eliot's smile fades into something more serious and he nods. "You said you had to intimidate some Lorians? Man, saying that out loud makes me feel like I'm in a Fillory chatroom."

Eliot's eyebrows do something judgmental. "There are Fillory chatrooms?"

"There are chatrooms for _everything_ on the internet. But Julia limits my internet time now, when she can."

Eliot's eyebrows still aren't quitting that judgmental thing. "Because you type like you're using chopsticks for the first time and it’s painful to watch?"

"No. I mean I do. But. I get angry at people who are wrong on the internet. And there are a _lot_ of people who are wrong on the internet, believe me."

"They're probably a lot more wrong about Fillory than even you knew."

"Yeah, I guess so." Quentin shakes his head. There's a giddy, rippling laughter in his chest, like champagne bubbles are caught in his lungs. He hasn't felt this way for a long time. The last time he can remember, he was standing in a dark room, sunbeams streaming through large dusty windows, while playing cards shot around the room, propelled by Quentin's first-ever big working of magic. But _Fillory is real_ might even be more of a shock than _magic is real._

It's almost surreal to watch other people walk past them. It had taken Quentin a while to realize that everyone around him had their own rich and personal inner life—when he was younger Quentin had been like so many other teenagers, self-involved and painfully oblivious—but years of therapy during college had been the exactly what he needed to realize the universe hadn't been invented solely to screw him over. Even if it does still feel like that sometimes.

Now, he can’t help but think of the regular, civilian lives of all the people walking by. They know nothing of magicians or werewolves or pixies or vampires. And right now, they're unknowingly walking past the King of Fillory. Yeah, Quentin is going to have to use every single coping technique in his toolbox to remind himself that this is real.

He drags out a solid one he hasn’t had to use for a while: Three things he can smell. Three things he can hear. Three things he can see.

He can smell grass, the faint remnants of burnt hair from that morning's curse dodging (maybe it scorched some of his nose hair in the process), and the coconut hair shampoo Julia buys for him every Christmas and birthday, because it's her favorite. He can hear people chatting as they walk, soft murmuring, the distant beeps of taxi cabs, a faint strain of jazz in the air. Someone yells _fuck_ really loudly; Quentin empathizes. He can see a Sugar Maple tree to their right that's slightly curving over, like it's trying to reach for the sun; a dalmatian being walked on a blue leash _;_ and he can see Eliot's profile, almost a silhouette because he's walking between Quentin and the sun, a distinctive line, crowned by that curly, wild hair that Quentin has the weirdest urge to touch, to find out if it's as soft as it looks when it's dry.

Quentin takes a deep breath. He's here, and he's real, and Eliot needs his help. What he _doesn’t_ need is for Quentin to zone out on him, and leave him no better than if he’d left on his own. Quentin feels queasy thinking about it. There’s something so _wrong_ about the idea of Eliot making this journey alone. Quentin still feels responsible for him.

"Right, sorry, you were asking about the cacodemon," Eliot says, and Quentin blinks. Oh, had the silence become awkward? "I got distracted for a moment. It's weird to be here. I guess I never thought I'd see Earth again."

Quentin's heart aches. Eliot's voice is thin, like even being here is somehow wounding him.

"Yeah, I was wondering what it was like to live a life where you'd _have_ to use it so soon." Quentin wrinkles his nose. "I mean, I live in New York, I've had random daydreams about getting to unleash it to stop a thief, if it's down a dark alley and no one's around to see me bust a demon out from my back. But nothing remarkable has ever really happened to me."

"I don't know," Eliot says, glancing briefly at Quentin, "I think your son's pretty remarkable. Not many kids that age can take out the King of Fillory with a _door._ "

Quentin laughs. "I'm still sorry about that. He gets that clumsiness from me."

"Well. I promise not to stand in the way of things that could easily hit me in future."

"I suppose it's reassuring that even a King has things to learn in life."

Eliot snorts, moving his gaze away from Quentin to the view around them. There's something intense about his gaze, like he's trying to take it all in, imprinting it on his memories like a photograph. "I'm barely a real King. All I do is what I'm told for the most part. Mostly I just sit and look pretty."

Quentin can believe it. "I bet," he says, distractedly wishing for a moment he could see Eliot on his throne. His mouth is weirdly dry. He should have brought some water for the walk. "But you can't be all that ornamental if you've been in a cacodemon-requiring situation?"

"I suppose." Eliot rubs at his nose. "Fillory is… wild, in its nature, its makeup, its magic... The political tensions and the enemies from all angles—I've used a lot more battle magic than I ever imagined I would have to."

Quentin doesn't mean to make the noise of surprise that leaves his mouth.

"Ah, battle magic's still banned from American schools?" Eliot exhales noisily through his nose for a second. "I suppose it makes sense. The lack of oversight in American magical education means you wouldn't have the same safety protocols in place. It still _would_ be dangerous to learn much of it here."

"Julia rants about that pretty often," Quentin admits. "Who watches the watchmen."

"While the battle magic we learned at Peyrelade was basic, it was enough to defend ourselves in Fillory, at least to begin with. No one there can use magic." Eliot's smile widens. "Margo and I are known across the lands as the magician Kings. I'm not going to lie, it does make me feel like a bad-ass."

"The _spectacular_ magician Kings."

Eliot laughs, a musical noise that Quentin loves. He wants to hear it again. "Exactly," he says. "Anyway, there was a conflict, early on. Loria was intent on showing its strength. We were uncontested. I was still the High King at that point—it suited me poorly, unfortunately—and we only had basic Battle Magic to draw from. So Margo decided that I should let my cacodemon go as a show of force. We were able to let them think we had constant control and access to many more demons like it."

"I wish I could have seen that."

"I was magnificent, Quentin. I'm not going to lie."

Quentin rolls his eyes as Eliot puffs out his chest and winks at him. "Aren't you worried they'll realize the truth?"

Eliot casually rolls his shoulders, more like he's trying to get rid of tension than shrug. "By the time they realized it was possible—or even likely—Margo had raided the depths of Whitespire's library. The Fillorians mightn’t be able to use magic, but they've hoarded it for years anyway. We learned Battle Spells there that would probably make your eyes pop out of your sockets if you saw them. Literally, with a couple of them. They're really gross."

"I'll skip that, then, I think." Quentin wrinkles his mouth. "Battle magic's still frowned on by the Magicians' Court."

"Unfortunately unsurprising." Eliot shudders. "I still think of myself as an American magician, but I think some of the French school elitism sank into my bones. Some of the ways they do things here sound profoundly damaged." A shadow passes over Eliot's face. "Like _forced small animal transformations._ "

Quentin frowns. It's been a very long time since anyone other than Julia got angry on Quentin's behalf. "It's a pity you're not staying any longer. Kady's mom was a hedgewitch. She knows some killer under-the-radar battle spells."

"I'll add it to the slowly growing list of my minor regrets," Eliot says, rumpling his face up in a way that reads of genuine disappointment. "Alas, I'm sure my kingdom's in uproar as it is."

"I would think so too," Quentin says. He can't imagine how he'd feel if Eliot went missing without warning, and he's only known him for a day.

"I can't believe you've still got your cacodemon. Most people would have let them go by now."

"Julia did the instant we had them done. She felt sorry for it. And I think Kady and Penny have used theirs, I guess their line of work's a bit more dramatic than mine, but they closed up when I asked, and Julia said not to press. All I live is a boring life. But I can't shake the idea that it might come in useful. Julia says I'm just being stubborn."

"Can't relate," Eliot says, in a tone which clearly says he _can._ "Margo was the same. Let it go a couple hours later."

Quentin makes a noise of amusement. "How long have you and Margo known each other?"

"Oh, years. People think we must have been friends from birth. Like maybe we were born in the same hospital, in parallel cots, but I didn't even know she existed until my first day at Brakebills. I saw her, and I'll never forget it—she'd convinced several of the other freshmen to form a fraternity called DTF. Several of them were kneeling, bare-ass nude in public, so she could sit on them as a throne. It was _hilarious_. Our eyes met above those heaving, pasty bodies—and I knew right then, I had to have this person in my life."

"That, uh, that's quite the meeting," Quentin says, blinking. He’d heard rumors about that failed fraternity.

"I had a—problem, shall we say, with certain...forms of escapism. I was fairly busy trying to flee reality in every possible way. Margo tried her best to stop me, of course. Honestly, if I hadn't been expelled, I don't know _how_ far it would have gone. It was _much_ harder to find recreational substances in France. Easier for alcohol, of course, _you_ know the French and wine, _dread_ ful snobs even though I can't say it's unearned."

Quentin, who drives Julia to the edge of reason by buying wine in boxes sometimes, makes an encouraging noise. "And after Peyrelade was Fillory?"

"Something tells me that you're as much of a Fillory nerd as Margo."

"I don't know how much of a Fillory nerd Margo is."

"Well, I suppose as you've named your store after it, probably about the same amount."

Quentin makes another noncommittal noise, because sometimes he thinks _no one_ is as much as a Fillory nerd as he is. "Fillory saved my life," Quentin blurts, instead. And then he wishes he could swallow it back, because the way Eliot _looks_ at him is so intense. Quentin swallows uncomfortably and can't meet Eliot's gaze. "When I told Alice that, she thought I meant I'd been like, shot at, or something, and one of the books deflected it, saving my life." He smiles wryly. "I've never been shot at. I mean, I heard a car backfire once and ran twenty blocks like my ass was on fire."

"Who hasn't?"

"But no guns. Which is lucky, considering current rates of gun violence in the continental US—anyway, you didn't ask for _that_ rant. It's...my brain." Quentin gestures at it helplessly. "It breaks sometimes. It doesn't work. And when that happens, I used to crawl into Fillory. Fictional Fillory. I read those books cover to cover until my brain quietened down. And every time the world gets a bit noisy, Fillory—" Quentin pulls a face, realizing he's talked too much. "I'm sorry, you didn't need all that."

"I want to find anyone who's ever shut you up and I want to _smack_ them," Eliot says, with a heat that surprises Quentin more than his words. "Jesus. Who the fuck ever taught you that your passion is something to be ashamed of?"

Quentin can't look at Eliot; the earnest indignation on his face is too much. "Everyone ever, I guess. It's fine. I get it. I get things stuck—"

"Quentin," Eliot says. Quentin turns and realizes that Eliot is standing stock still on the path. Quentin exhales and stops too, staring at him dubiously. "I mean, anxiety makes me ramble sometimes, I get it, sometimes you want to be sure that what you're saying isn't unwelcome. But I like hearing you talk. As as much as I want to get back home, it's a shame that I'm not going to be able to hear you talk again for a while, if at all." It might be Quentin's imagination, but Eliot looks chagrined at having to say that.

"Well. I was mostly done anyway."

"All the more perplexing why you'd shut yourself up." Eliot starts walking again, inclining his head like he's expecting Quentin to follow.

Quentin does, even if a tiny sulky part of him wants to stand there and see how long it takes Eliot to notice that Quentin isn't following. He forgives Eliot instead; being a King must make expecting others to follow you around a hard habit to break.

"I get what you mean, though," Eliot says, and now he's the one not making eye contact with Quentin, his eyes tracing across the skyscrapers reaching out from behind the trees. "Fillory saved my life, too."

"Did it step in the way of a bullet?"

Eliot looks at Quentin sharply and then laughs when he sees Quentin's impish expression. Quentin stores away the feeling it gives him, to make Eliot laugh. "I was drowning. And Fillory saved me. And I guess that means Margo saved me too, but I make sure to say Fillory, because _someone_ needs to keep her ego in check."

Quentin eyes Eliot dubiously, because he's not sure any girlfriend _he's_ had would dare let him speak about them like that. Margo sounds perfect for Eliot. It's irritating, for Quentin to be suddenly jealous of someone he's never met.

He thinks again of how close it must have been, how he and Eliot were nearly at Brakebills at the same time, and Quentin's suddenly halfway through a daydream: that he and Eliot would have somehow met there, and maybe been friends; Eliot would have been a year ahead, though, and the older students tended to ignore the younger ones; would Quentin have still been assigned to the Physical Kids’ Cottage? He had only been sent there as a Squatmancer because it had spare bedrooms… And of course there's Margo. Eliot would have already seen Margo by the time Quentin joined the school. The daydream would be all over before it had even begun. There's no way Eliot would have paid a _second_ of attention to a first-year, let alone the bumbling mess Quentin had been.

Quentin abruptly shakes that stupid daydream away. It's funny how life works like that, he reflects glumly. His fantasies sound fairly reasonable, while Eliot's reality sounds _impossible._

"How did you and Margo find Fillory?" Quentin asks, and he's proud of himself that it comes out as a level, casual question, when he's kind of been wanting to shake Eliot, since the moment he saw the rotating towers of Castle Whitespire, on behalf of his teenage self who would have cried at the sight; shake Eliot until all the secrets of Fillory fell out of him to the ground.

"Oh, so you can visit and challenge for the throne?"

Quentin opens his mouth to protest and then exhales noisily when he sees Eliot's sly grin. "Jesus, you really like fucking with me."

Eliot clasps his hands over his chest. "But you make it so easy."

"I could fucking challenge you for the throne. If I wanted to."

"Of _course_ you could. But you'd have to get past Margo first and—honestly, I don't see it. She'd crush you under her heel."

"She sounds...appropriately terrifying."

"She is. It's _wonderful._ "

"Starting to see why Julia thought you were concussed."

"Unfortunately for her, I _arrived_ this weird," Eliot bows dramatically. "You're totally welcome."

Quentin laughs. "You're avoiding the subject."

"Huh? Oh. Fillory. Well, sadly I’m not sure how replicable it is. After we graduated from Peyrelade, we went on...a graduation bender, _as_ you do. And during a rager—Margo always gets the _best_ ideas when she's completely out-of-her-skull, seventeen-sheets-to-the- _wind_ -level wasted—Margo decided we could use the portal to our favorite British public house, stumble to the Plover mansion, and see if the buttons were in there somewhere."

"The buttons Ember and Umber gave Jane Chatwin and she lost."

"Yeah."

"Wait." Quentin's the one to stop this time; he's gratified that Eliot stills too. "You're not telling me that the buttons, _the_ buttons, were still in the house?"

"No, god, no. They weren't. There were some ghosts, though, and I've always been a bit of an aficionado on the spectral realm, so I knew some old French spells about how to talk to them. Before we got thrown out on our ass, an angry ghost woman told us she'd seen something in the well, and perhaps we'd like to look for it face-first, without a ladder."

"They were in the _well_?"

"You sound as appalled as Margo was. And we only found one button in there. Touching it took us to this weird city, which must be the Neitherlands Lipson mentioned—we’ve never had a name for it before. Margo followed the instructions in the books, and we held the button between us and jumped in a fountain, and, well, there we were. Fillory." Eliot shrugs and starts walking again. "They declared me High King after stabbing me with a knife—don't ask me, there are so many weird ramsian customs there—and I was so far in over my head that I introduced democracy so they would leave me alone and stop asking me for things. Margo won the election, though, and at the moment I thought I was free, she declared me King, so I was _still_ trapped. Only now she has to make all the boring, important decisions."

"Well. It was nice she picked you."

"She couldn't bear the idea of me getting to loll around doing nothing while _she_ did all the hard work. She said she couldn't even think of doing it without me. So that's why I have to get back." Eliot's voice quietens into something softer, pained somehow. "I need to get back to her."

Quentin's chest aches for him. "I'm sure she's already looking for you."

"Yes. I'm sure too." Eliot shakes himself, like he can dislodge his unpleasant thoughts. "So that's where we've been for ten years. Ruling Fillory. It's so much more dull than you're imagining."

"You're only saying that to calm the Fillory nerd's dire jealousy."

"I wish I was that nice. It is really that boring. And insane. Did I mention that the Spear-Bearers of the Floating Island take their spears everywhere? Even into their bath?"

"You have mentioned that, yes."

"I bet they even take them to bed with them."

"Cuddle them, probably."

"I don't understand it and even if I did, I'd probably still judge the shit out of it."

"It's weird. Spears are metal. Metal rusts. Why would you take anything metal into water with you? It's illogical."

Eliot grabs Quentin's arm and looks at him with a wild expression. "You really _get_ me, Quentin Coldwater. _Thank you."_

"It's fucking weird," Quentin shrugs.

"It really fucking is," Eliot says, and grins, laughing out loud again, that same beautiful musical noise that makes Quentin's head feel nicely fuzzy. "And there's so much pointless _bureaucracy._ I hate it."

"I appreciate you trying to downplay the land of my childhood dreams."

"It really does have its downsides. Like, I was there barely a week and they tried to marry me off to a knifemaker's daughter."

"I bet Margo wasn't too impressed."

"She laughed her _ass_ off. And then helped them explain marrying a woman—not my kind of thing."

Quentin blinks at Eliot, running that through his head again. He knew Eliot had implied he wasn't straight earlier, but _not straight_ didn't exclude _not married to someone called Margo._ "Um. So you and Margo…” Quentin trails off at the look of absolute amusement on Eliot’s face. “You and Margo _aren’t_ married?”

“Do you want to run by me how you came to the conclusion that we were?”

Quentin's face feels warm. "You said she was your partner."

"I suppose I did. Margo's my soulmate, but it's platonic as fuck, and neither of us would have it any other way." Eliot looks fondly into the distance for a moment. "Not that there weren't a few pleasant nights at Encanto Oculto, of course. But no. We're meant to be together, but not romantically."

"Like me and Jules," Quentin says, softly. "But, uh, without the—pleasant nights."

"That's a shame. You're both very attractive. Might have been a good time."

"Honestly, I can't say I didn't _want_ it for a while. An embarrassingly long while, if we're being candid. But then I finally realized I only _thought_ I was in love with her. I wasn't exactly the first person in line when they were handing out emotional intelligence." Quentin grins ruefully at Eliot. "I love where we're at now. I can't imagine my life without her."

"I don't know if I _can_ survive a day without my Margo fix," Eliot sighs. "Even if she _is_ the brat who immediately hired my wife-not-to-be onto the castle staff. We're both hopeful that Fen—that's her name—will give up on the idea of us getting married someday soon."

"After ten years, I'd hope so."

"Well, there are a lot more men around the Castle right now than usual, which might tempt her, thank goodness."

"Are those men there to protect you from the Spear-Bearers?"

"No, Margo's looking for her True Love, actually." Eliot scrunches up his nose dismissively. It's weirdly adorable, Quentin thinks, and then shakes that away. "There's this spell she found in the basement of the Castle, she thinks it's some sort of one-size-fits-all Healing spell, and, to be honest, I get why she's so desperate to have something like that at our disposal. Not everyone's so pleased to have strangers on the thrones, even when the High King _was_ democratically elected by Fillorians." Eliot looks amused. "By the talking animals, actually."

Quentin nearly trips over his own feet and there's not even a step in front of him to blame. "Talking animals?" Why is he even surprised? Of course there are talking animals. Fillory's real. Is that ever going to sink in?

"The face you're making was pretty much Margo's first reaction when we landed in Fillory and nearly ran into a talking badger."

"It's nice she's getting to look for her True Love."

"She considered some marriages for political alliance. One of them nearly took, Prince Micah, of the Floating Island."

"I thought you said that the Floating Island is where those delusional Spear-Bearers are from?"

"Delusional, _yes_. And yes. That's true. Micah was an...admittedly decent guy. Hot, athletic, kind. Really nice ass, too, he wore a lot of tight breeches, so _I_ approved of the match, of course. Whomever Margo marries is gonna be my eye candy, so you have to agree it's reasonable to hope for her to hook up with a hottie."

" _Totally_ reasonable," Quentin says, not entirely sure how much he's teasing and how much he's not.

"Unfortunately, Micah was killed. In a hunting accident. Margo was put just enough off her stride that I think she was genuinely devastated, not that she'd show it. It's not that she's unemotional, you understand. It's because she's so much more sensitive than you'd think at first or seventh glance. She feels everything _too_ much, so she locks it all away. Hell of a coping mechanism, but it works for her, and it's better than mine."

Quentin nods empathetically when Eliot makes a _drinky-drinky_ gesture with his hand. "You do your best, I'm sure."

Eliot nods tightly, averting his gaze. "Anyway, Margo has been throwing some classic fairytale-style balls to find a True Love. I think it's an excuse for a party, really. But she's determined to _try_ and find someone. Every nation has sent representatives as an attempt to be the one she picks." Eliot leans in closer to Quentin, conspiratorially. "The smart ones haven't sent just men, either. Margo's _very_ open minded."

Quentin smiles at him, brightly. "All the best people are."

"Unfortunately the Spear-Bearers didn't come alone. The Stone Queen also _rather_ hopefully sent along Micah's brother, Fomar."

"Oh. Is he anything like his brother? Is there hope for Margo there?"

"Definitely _not_. He's fifteen, still a _child_. Unfortunately, because Margo and Micah got so close to actually marrying, Fomar thinks she's rightfully his. The fastest way to turn Margo off, even without taking the whole underage thing under account, is to act entitled to her in any way, shape, or form."

"Yeah, I can see that."

"Unfortunately because of diplomatic reasons, we can't send the little snot-rag back to the Floating island."

"I see. And _you_ can't be Margo's _True Love_? For the sake of the spell, I mean."

"Sadly, it has to be romantic, not platonic, so Margo is out there to woo her pretty ass off. All speed to her. _I_ couldn't do it."

"I wouldn't want to." Quentin wrinkles up his nose. "True Love. It seems... a bit unreal?"

"You're not a romantic, then?"

"Oh, I mean. In the abstract. Maybe. If I am, I can't be any good at it. At least Alice knows that in advance I guess." Quentin falls silent almost as soon as he thinks about his girlfriend. Oh god. Alice. Her admonishments still ring in his ears. He'll have to make it up to her soon.

"Your… girlfriend knows you don't believe in True Love?"

"She does. But right now I guess it isn’t important, because even if she _did_ believe in big romantic love _,_ at the moment she probably doesn't even _like_ me much. Not that I blame her. I guess the whole situation must have looked kinda weird."

"I think it probably looked kinda hot," Eliot waggles his eyebrows at Quentin. "I don't look bad half-naked. I've had many reviews to that effect."

Quentin laughs. "I'm sure you have. Ugh. I dunno. I'm hoping she calms down and sees it as rationally as possible." He sobers. "And it's not like I've handled any of it as well as I could. I'm—jumpy, I guess."

"About Alice?"

"About any kind of relationship." Quentin exhales noisily. "I'm sorry, you don't want someone who's basically a stranger to dump their personal shit on you—"

"I've done nothing _but_ dump my personal shit on you since I arrived. _And_ I'm partially responsible for getting you in trouble with your girl. _And_ I think we already covered how much I like hearing you talk."

"Oh. Yeah. Well. Julia wants me to invite her for dinner tomorrow, and that's a big step. Alice hasn't even formally met my friends yet."

"How long have you and Alice been dating?"

"About four months?"

Eliot stops still again. "Four _months_ and she hasn't met your friends yet—Jesus, Quentin, no _wonder_ the woman's sore at you."

"I know. I _know._ I fucked up. I have this thing. About people leaving. And I've been so focused on the fear of that, that I haven't really given her a chance, and you're right, it's so unfair, and I have to work on that."

"You should let her know how you feel about her."

"Alice and I aren't like that. We're practical."

Eliot snorts. "Practical. _No_ woman wants practical."

"Alice does."

"Quentin." Eliot puts his hands on Quentin's shoulders, and Quentin stares up at him confused, and also suddenly aware again of their height difference. Eliot's hands are warm through Quentin's shirt, his fingers holding him firmly. "Alice cares about you. Deeply. Or she wouldn't have lost it so dramatically at such a small misunderstanding. She might _say_ she wants practical, but I guarantee it, even for practical people, a little bit of wooing does not go wrong."

Quentin frowns up at Eliot. "I'm not sure I know _how_ to woo. I mean. I wooed Teddy's mom. Obviously. But that was so long ago."

"Oh, _that’s_ not something to fret about. Not when Uncle Eliot’s on the job." Eliot lets Quentin go, and Quentin's so distracted with how _cold_ he feels when Eliot moves his hands, that he doesn't at first even realize Eliot's hands are moving into position to cast a spell. "I know this _great_ song that'll sort things out _stat_ —"

"Jesus, fuck," Quentin hisses, stepping back in horror. Thankfully his outburst makes Eliot pause, just before he's about to cast his spell; a collaborative sing-along spell that psychically shoves the music and lyrics directly into your head. Julia likes to make Penny and Kady do it when she's drunk. The three of them do a pretty sweet collaborative rendition of _Lady Marmalade._ "I know I put up a mild ward to hide what we were saying, but you can't _burst out into song_ in Central Park. Even _with_ magic. The muggles miss a lot, but I guarantee you, they'll fucking notice a couple of magicians bursting out into song and harmonically dragging everyone else with us on the ride."

"Fuck. Yeah. I'd almost forgotten I was on Earth for a moment there." Eliot grimaces. "Sorry. It's been a _long_ ten years."

"We'd better get a hurry on to this appointment," Quentin mutters, embarrassed.

"A little bit of romance. That's what you need for your Alice." Eliot puts his hands in front of him and Quentin's eyes widen.

"I thought I just said—" Quentin hisses, panicked. His kid is a safe distance away right now, and he's _still_ having to stop people openly using magic, what the fuck.

"Relax, the muggles will think this is a nice breeze," Eliot mutters, his long fingers moving deftly through a graceful series of tuts. He's right, too, no one's even looking at him as they walk past. It's stupid that they're not, Quentin thinks. Eliot is _clearly_ the most attractive person in the park right now. "There you go," Eliot adds.

Quentin blinks as a stream of pretty pink flower petals shoot up into the breeze, making a beeline for a building in the distance. "What is it?"

Eliot smiles. "It's a floral communication spell I put together in Fillory a while ago."

Quentin watches the flock of petals, elegantly swooping through the air. He loves magic. Deep in the core of him, since the moment in his Brakebills interview when he did his first major working, he's _loved_ it. He used to think he'd love magic more than anything, until the second he held his son for the very first time; then magic was relegated to second place. But he still loves it, like a rush of bubbly laughter, trapped in his chest.

He watches the petals breeze past a group of unaware civilians. People have _no idea_ what was right under their noses, the wonderful world that lives an inch away from them at all times. Quentin feels guilty at that thought, though. That amazing world of magic is one he keeps secret, even from his most beloved. Sometimes this happens, guilt clawing up Quentin's chest, that he's hiding such a wondrous thing from his son. Teddy's not Arielle. Is it really fair for Quentin to treat him like he might react so poorly to the existence of magic, even if he can't use it himself?

Quentin swallows down all those bad thoughts. He can't handle them right now. Now is for Eliot and _Fillory_.

"What does the spell do?" Quentin asks, proud his voice is only slightly thick.

"It should, if I did it right, go straight to Alice with an invite for dinner tomorrow."

Quentin's heart lurches in his chest. "Oh. Yeah. I probably would have procrastinated until it was too late."

"Or sent it as an email, I suppose." Eliot looks down at Quentin. "Women are as bad as any other kind of people at figuring out what they want. But a few flowers when you're dating someone, they _never_ hurt."

"You know what does hurt?" Quentin asks.

"A door to the face delivered by your new friend's karate kid son?"

"Well, yes. That."

"What else?"

"That you said the _muggles_ wouldn't notice. You've been away from Earth for ten years. It stings that the Harry Potter series is so old now that even someone who yeeted themselves off to a magical land can reference it."

Eliot's eyebrows do something confusing. "Yeeted?"

"I guess that's one of the things you _did_ miss," Quentin says.


	7. Eliot

Eliot perks up as soon as he sees Quentin coming out of the apartment.

Quentin's body language is all over the place, but Eliot's been starting to suspect that's normal for Quentin—like even _he_ can't parse the variety of emotions he's feeling at any given time. His shoulders are bunched defensively, but he looks dazed and slack-jawed, like he's seen something amazing. His right hand is tugging a strand of hair loose, twisting it in his fingers, and that's when Eliot realizes: it's not good news.

"It's still blocked, isn't it?" Eliot asks, as soon as Quentin gets within hearing range.

Quentin's brow furrows, which Eliot reads as confirmation of his fear even _before_ Quentin says, "I'm so sorry, Eliot."

"It's okay. I can stalk around here, wait until he leaves. I know enough magic to break in, give myself a warning-perimeter so I can get out before he comes back—" Eliot trails off, because Quentin's mouth scrunches up like there's something he's missing. "What?"

"Well. There's good news and bad news on that front."

Eliot exhales through his nose. "Okay, hit me with it."

"Your apparent break-in was apparently one of three. Two other men before you with spears."

"I guess it makes sense Ramof tested the portal first."

"Cops picked them up, you were lucky to escape. The guy's obviously rattled, though, so his twin brother's staying in the apartment with him for the next few days." Quentin glances back at the apartment, like he can see through the walls. He looks back at Eliot seriously. "The good news is that tomorrow lunchtime, they'll be out. I asked when I could come back and take another look at the painting, because I was so undecided and maybe needed to bring a friend next time—and the brother let slip they had an appointment. I tried to pin an exact time on them, but they said for me to give them a call after five."

"Which implies they'll be out for a few hours tomorrow." Eliot takes a deep breath, this one not so muted, because it's one of relief. A few hours gives him options. The _tomorrow_ part isn't ideal, but if Margo has found the other side of the portal, she hasn't been able to break through yet, which is concerning. Maybe it needs two people working on it from either side? "Okay. I can work with that."

Eliot rolls his shoulders and wraps the handle of the canvas tote containing his crown more tightly around his wrist. It's time to say goodbye to Quentin. Find somewhere to stay for a night, and come back tomorrow. No point staking out a house he knows will be occupied for a while.

Quentin nods, looking happy that he's brought back actionable news to help Eliot get home. "I offered outright to buy the clock, because it's obviously what the portal's tied to—I checked, it's not the wall behind—but he said he wasn’t planning to sell it."

"Well, that tracks for my luck, even if I could afford it."

Quentin squints at Eliot. "A very Fillorian-looking clock that might be a portal to _actual Fillory,_ and you don't think Julia would leap at using our decorating budget this year to put it in our shop _named after Fillory?_ "

"Oh. Well. When you put it that way."

"I left him a business card in case he changes his mind." Quentin casts a glance back at the apartment, like Nigel might come running out of it at any moment to offer him the clock. "I wanted to buy half of the stuff he had, to be honest. He even had a copy of the script for the Fillory movie in ‘93 that never got made, although I guess that's a good thing, some of the team involved went on to adapt _The Dark Is Rising_ and _that_ was an abomination to literature adaptations." Quentin scrunches his nose up and starts to walk. "The guy has a lot of Fillory merch, actually. I guess it makes sense why he'd end up with a clock that was obviously Fillory-inspired—"

Eliot can see the exact moment Quentin realizes that Eliot's not following him.

Quentin falters and turns back, to stare at Eliot in confusion.

"Thank you for all your help," Eliot says. "But I should probably take it from here."

Quentin's face, which had been so prettily enthusiastic moments before, rearranges into a squint of disbelief. "I told you, they're not leaving until tomorrow." At Eliot's pause, Quentin tilts his head. "We'll come back then. There's no point loitering on a street corner."

"You've done more than enough for me," Eliot says, slowly. This is the right thing to do. And honestly, he's starting to...get attached. He wants to go back with Quentin, and see Teddy again, and Julia, and even Kady and Penny and Josh. But it would be overstepping his welcome. Quentin probably has things to do tonight and tomorrow, to help prepare for an important dinner, and Alice finally meeting all his friends.

Quentin walks closer and then stops in front of Eliot, crossing his arms over his chest, obscuring the _Fillory and Further_ logo. Eliot's eyes catch on Quentin's strong forearms. The distracting matte of hair on them makes Eliot wonder where else on Quentin's body might be covered with that soft criss-cross of hair, and his throat feels suddenly dry.

"If you think I'm gonna strand you here, a fellow magician, when we have a perfectly large amount of space back in our building for an extra person to stay, then you've _completely_ misunderstood me as a person." Quentin tilts his chin. "And I take umbrage to that."

"Umbrage," Eliot repeats, faintly.

"Yeah. Umbrage. I'm offended. You hurt my feelings."

"I'm sorry."

"You should be. C'mon. Chop-chop. _Andale_." Quentin claps his hands and inclines his head back in the direction of _Fillory and Further._

"You can't—you can't order me around. I'm not your kid. I'm a _King._ "

Quentin shrugs. "Not here you're not. So you can hang around on the street like a total loser, or you can come home with me where we have food, an actual bed… _running water._ "

Eliot considers Quentin's words. Absolutely no hesitation about hitting Eliot's known weak spots. "Are you always this annoying when you want something?"

"Pretty much," Quentin grins and it's like looking at the sun. "It's my superpower."

"All right, fine," Eliot says. It’s worrying, but he honestly might agree to anything, as long as Quentin promises to keep smiling at him like that. "If you're sure."

"Why wouldn't I be?" Quentin asks, smiling smugly when Eliot relents and starts walking away from Nigel's townhouse and back toward the shop.

"Alice," Eliot says, simply. He knows it's not his fault, but he keeps churning the moment up in his head, at how bad it might have looked from an outside perspective. He has to keep focusing on that part, or else he’ll remember how nice it had felt, for a moment, to have Quentin beneath him.

Quentin's eyes had been so close to his. And his hand had been in Eliot's hair, slipping through the curls like they belonged there. And after they'd gotten up from the carpet, the way that Quentin's gaze had caught on his chest, for a moment too long—

Alice. Quentin's girlfriend. The last thing Eliot wants to do is ruin Quentin's life in any way. Not when he has such an enviously lovely life.

Quentin shrugs. "What about Alice? I explained it was a misunderstanding. Which it was. You and I weren't doing anything wrong. If Alice can't understand that and trust me, then it's better I learn _now_ that we're not right for each other."

"That's...incredibly level-headed."

"Hey, I have my moments." Quentin shoves his hands in his pockets and looks up at the sky, squinting at the position of the sun; Eliot thinks about how he stares up at the throne room ceiling and feels a weird pang of connection to Quentin that he doesn't know how to process, so he folds the feeling down, pushing it deeper inside himself. "Having a kid kind of changed a lot of things for me."

"He's a great kid," Eliot murmurs, and almost instantly regrets it, because Eliot had thought Quentin's smile couldn't get any warmer, and—it does. Oh god. Quentin's going to notice him staring at him like an entire idiot.

"Yeah, he really is," Quentin says.

Eliot's considers arguing against Quentin’s generosity once again—he's a magician, there are plenty of ATMs nearby, surely a hotel _will_ have a vacancy, but suddenly he and Quentin are distracted by something else: a chiming noise.

Quentin's hands flail everywhere for a moment, patting himself down in a way that makes Eliot's cheeks warm, and then he pulls out a phone from his pocket, squinting at it like it's some sort of interloper. After an extended moment of staring at the screen, Quentin manages to connect the incoming call.

"Alice!" Quentin grins at Eliot, points at the phone and mouths _it's Alice_ like Eliot hadn't heard him. "You got my invitation. Great. You _loved_ it—great. Great!"

Eliot knows a spell that could help him hear the other side of this conversation, and it's subtle enough for him to cast on the sidewalk, but he doesn't. Quentin's side of the call is more than enough for him.

"Look, I'm sorry about this morning," Quentin says, and then there's a burst of sound. "Thank you. Absolutely. It really was a simple favor." More sound. "Yeah. Thanks, Alice. Yeah, I'm looking forward to it too." Another burst of sound. "We're hoping not, he wants to go home as soon as possible." A further reply. "Yeah. I'll let him know. You're the best, Alice. See you tomorrow."

Quentin hangs up and Eliot squints at him. That's what Quentin considers a decent phone call with his girlfriend? And an acceptable sign-off? The guy needs more help than Eliot can provide in his limited remaining time on Earth.

"I told you she'd like it," Eliot says.

"She loved it. Thank you." Quentin smiles. "She said she was sorry for jumping to conclusions about the semi-naked guy in my apartment, and that if I said nothing happened, then she believes me."

"Which is good. Because nothing happened. Well, gravity happened."

"Gravity has never had my back. I find that baffling. I'm perfectly polite to gravity."

Eliot laughs at Quentin's dramatically injurious expression, and he's rewarded by a flash of a shy, pleased smile. He is overcome again by the mental image of what it would be like to kiss Quentin. It would be so _good,_ Eliot's pretty sure about that, and… oh gods, this is starting to feel like a _crush,_ and nope, no sirree, Eliot Waugh does _not crush_ on people. Crushing is for teenagers being bombarded by weird hormones and conflicting expectations from figures of authority and it is not for temporarily-displaced _Kings._

It's the shock of being back on Earth. That has to be it. Eliot's probably already starting to suffer from opiate withdrawal too, bless Fillory and its drug-addling atmosphere. He shoves the thought away and follows along with Quentin, only pausing once to cast a glance backward in worry. Margo would be mocking him to high heaven if she was here, but she's not.

Which begs the question: where is she?

She has to be looking for him. Which means she must have found the portal. Which means that it still must be blocked on the Fillory-side. Which begs a worse question: who hates Eliot so much that they'd go to _this_ much effort to keep him out of Fillory?

It can't be the FU fighters. They've gone out of their way time and again to prove they would rather stab or poison Eliot. They wouldn't go to the effort of keeping him alive. But someone clearly wants him out of the way. Someone talented or powerful, if Margo hasn't been able to unblock the portal yet. But who?

Whoever it is, they're still out there, in the same place as Margo. Eliot takes a deep breath. She's strong. She can take care of herself. And she'll have Fen at her side. Margo can survive another half-a-day without him. A little voice adds that she could be quite fine without him for a lot longer than that, but he shoves that thought away, boxing it up and hurling it into the back of his mind.

Eliot's got better things to focus on for the moment. Like making the most of his current company for the limited time he's got left. The guy might have a girlfriend, but it's like Margo always says: even with food at home you can still look at a restaurant menu every now and again.

And Eliot knows one thing for sure: most menus aren't nearly _half_ as nice to look at as Quentin Coldwater's ass.

* * *

As they head back to _Fillory and Further,_ Quentin rambles delightfully about some of the clients he's had over the last few years. Eliot only spends half the time watching Quentin's hands as he gestures exuberantly, which he thinks is a mark of high restraint.

The bookstore doors are open, which makes sense, it's a warm day, but Eliot does side-eye the door as they enter the shop together, Quentin going first.

The shop is busier than Eliot's seen it until now, eight people milling around the shelves, one teenager cross-legged on the floor reading second-hand graphic novels. No one is bothering them so obviously reading the stock isn't against their policy, which makes sense for what Eliot's seen of them. Julia is at the main counter, Kady leaning against it and smiling up at her flirtatiously; they both seem to notice Eliot and Quentin at the same time.

"Aw, man," Kady sighs.

Eliot raises his eyebrows. He thought he'd done enough to walk back her bad first impression of him last night (it's been a long time since that Welters near-injury), but apparently not.

"Pay up," Julia says, finger-gunning Kady.

"Why are you always right?" Kady grouches, leaning over and kissing Julia's forehead, which makes Julia's smugness turn into a sappy smile, a flush creeping in on her cheeks.

"What the hell did you bet on this time?" Quentin demands as he approaches the counter; then he pauses, and looks back at Eliot, almost sheepishly. "Forehead kisses. It's how we bet around here."

"I bet that Q would bring you back with him somehow," Julia says, beaming at Eliot, who is busy internally crying at how adorable the forehead kiss bet idea is.

Kady leans back against the counter, crossing her long legs and folding her arms. Eliot loves the confidence of it; she probably makes a very intimidating personal investigator. He's jealous, actually; when he was a kid he loved watching PI shows.

"What happened?" Kady asks, in her thick, throaty voice. "You get thrown out? Couldn't find the address you were looking for?"

"Hey, my map reading skills have improved since first year, y'know," Quentin says, instantly defensive, and then his voice softens. "The, uh, the way was blocked. It's gonna need… examination tomorrow. There's a good window for that. If that doesn't work, we might need to pick your brains about..."

"...doorways," Julia fills in for him, flickering an amused look at Eliot.

"Doorways, yeah," Quentin sighs, looking back at their front door with a faintly sheepish expression.

Eliot follows his gaze contemplatively. Sure, getting slugged in the face by a door isn't in his top ten activities for a day, but it led him to people who actually want to help him get home, so Eliot can't find any regret within him. Really, staring at Quentin's ass had done Eliot a _favor._ If the universe wanted him to stop being lecherous, it should stop rewarding him for his behavior.

"I have to pick Teddy up from school," Quentin says, turning to look up at Eliot, "you all right hanging around upstairs while I do that?"

"Or you can mooch around here," Julia says, beaming at Eliot. Her gaze flickers between the two of them and her smile widens mischievously.

"I wouldn't," Quentin says, leaning in. "She'll put you to work."

"I wouldn't mind," Eliot shrugs. "You've all given me the pleasure of your company, helping is the least I can do."

"Great," Julia beams, dipping behind the counter and throwing a pink bundle at Eliot. "You might want to change into this, you look like you're going to a funeral."

Eliot unrolls the bundle—it's a _Fillory and Further_ employee shirt.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Quentin says, and then points at Julia. "Don't work him too hard." He leans across the counter and kisses Julia on the cheek. Eliot holds the shirt tightly and tries to pretend he's not jealous.

Eliot looks to see Kady staring at him knowingly, one eyebrow raised. He suppresses an exhale.

"I'll be right back," Quentin says, and hurries off.

Eliot only checks his ass out a _little_ as Quentin goes; the knowing looks Julia and Kady give him as he turns back are hardly warranted. "I'll go change into this," Eliot says, probably too quickly.

"Uhuh," Julia says. "You do that."

Eliot hurries out back and takes the stairs two at a time. Quentin's apartment feels smaller without him and Teddy in it, more drab, but there's still something comfortable about it. Eliot hangs the bag with his crown up on the wall and quickly heads for the bathroom, hanging up the suit, jacket, and tie that had once been Penny's, and pulling on the pink shirt. Eliot catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror and nearly doesn't recognize himself.

It takes Eliot a moment to realize why his reflection seems so unfamiliar. His cheeks have color in them. And is that a faint smile still lingering on his lips? He smiles in Fillory. He smiles all the time. He laughs, too, faint chokes of laughter that Margo always brings bubbling out of him.

But it's only around Margo. Eliot casts his mind back. When has he really truly and easily smiled in Fillory when he _hasn't_ been around his platonic soulmate and best friend? Sure, he smiles for his Fillorians, but it's always the same plastic, affected, fake smile.

Eliot's stomach feels funny. Maybe it's that opiate-withdrawal thing again. He quickly washes his face like the water can rinse away his frustration, and he exits the apartment and jogs back down the stairs again.

Julia does put him to work immediately. Honestly, Eliot thinks he's being assigned as eye candy, because somehow the shelves she sends him to inventory-check are the ones being hovered around by some of the older clientele. He doesn't mind. Besides, he ends up being able to stop two old ladies bickering about which of the Brontë sisters was the best one (Eliot sways them away from Charlotte and Emily to _clearly_ the best—Anne had been underestimated and cruelly put down by Charlotte, and that had resonated unfairly down through her career—see, he does listen to Margo _sometimes_ ) which is pretty fun. It makes him feel useful, and he likes how that feels, even as it makes him ache.

"Starting to see why Q likes you so much," Julia says, as Eliot pulls away from the two customers, who are now eagerly flipping through the books looking for Anne Brontë's works. She slips an arm through Eliot's companionably, walking him back to the counter. "You're as much as a nerd as all of us."

Eliot scoffs. "Nerd?"

"Because non-nerdy people use phrases like _unflinching realism_ and _Byronic heroes_."

Eliot considers his response for a moment, not wanting to admit to borrowing from Margo's genius. "Normal's boring."

Then he does a double-take. Now Julia's starting to see why Q likes him so much? The idea of Julia and Quentin talking about him makes his ears feel hot.

Julia thankfully doesn't seem to notice Eliot's surprise. "You're not gonna get an argument from me on that one. We don't really do normal here."

Eliot hums under his breath. It's not really any of his business. "Alice seems...pretty normal."

Julia lets him go and returns to the counter, leaning against it casually. "Yeah, Quentin thinks you can _will_ your ideal life into being. Life doesn't really work that way."

"Life likes to give you enough time to make plans, and then spends the next ten years laughing its ass off at you." Eliot can't stifle the amused noise that escapes his mouth. "When I think of what Margo and I thought we'd do after school..."

"Oh, the four of us pretty much got our dream job," Julia says, gesturing at the building. "But if you'd told me in my first year at school I'd end up with a girlfriend _and_ a boyfriend, I'd probably have laughed you out of the library."

"Wouldn't laughing get you kicked out of the library too?"

Julia arches an eyebrow. "I'm a Knowledge kid. We lived in the library."

"Knowledge, huh?" Eliot leans in closer. "Were you guys as kinky as I always suspected you were?"

Julia waggles her eyebrows. "Wouldn't _you_ like to know."

"Sshh, let me enjoy imagining. I can see it now. Super silent orgies in the archives. Quick little blowies in the rare book room—swallowing, of course, can't let any untoward moisture near the books..."

"Ah, I think the truth would probably disappoint you."

"The truth often does, alas," Eliot glances at Julia. "Anything else on the agenda?"

"I think sadly my free labor is gonna be stolen away," Julia says, and then nods over at the doorway just in time for Eliot to see Teddy running in their direction.

Eliot is expecting Teddy to run to Julia, or the books, so he's completely unprepared for Teddy launching himself at Eliot. Eliot staggers at the impact, but remains upright, and he looks down perplexed at the mop of blond hair, and the small arms wrapped around his waist.

"Eliot!" Teddy yells, his voice muffled in Eliot's t-shirt. "I thought you were going away."

"Apparently he's been telling everyone how amazing your breakfast was," Quentin says sheepishly, joining them with less speed than his son. Eliot smiles reflexively at the sight of him, which is ridiculous behavior, but Eliot can't seem to stop himself.

"Well, if we get a few groceries tonight, I'm sure I could scare up one more before I go home," Eliot says, ruffling Teddy's hair. When he tells Margo about this, he'll be sure to tell her that she's not much taller than a preadolescent boy.

"C'mon, give Eliot some space," Quentin says, making Teddy step back and grimace apologetically.

Teddy looks at Quentin, a pleading expression on his face. "Dad, can Eliot come too?" He looks back at Eliot. "Friday night's pizza night.”

Eliot hesitates. He's imposing enough, he doesn't want to tread on any father-son bonding.

“ _Dad,_ ” Julia explains, “fixed the ovens at Bella Notte, and now Chef Joe makes them fresh pizza every Friday to say thank you. And Dad _brings us leftovers._ ” Julia leans over and elbows Quentin.

“Jesus, a guy forgets once and it’s the end of the world,” Quentin sighs. “I’ll remember this time.”

“I don’t want to intrude,” Eliot says, softly.

"Oh, god, no, you should totally come," Quentin says. "Teddy normally ends up harassing Joe and his pals for war stories—”

“ _Harassing,_ ” Teddy howls.

Quentin squints down at his son. “Politely asking,” Quentin amends. “And I usually end up eating on my own. It would be nice to have some company. And we can pick up some stuff for breakfast on the way back."

"Then I'd _love_ to come," Eliot says.

“We have to go back upstairs first, though,” Quentin says.

Teddy throws an annoyed look at Quentin. “I’m nine now.”

Quentin folds his arms. “And?”

"I can eat carefully.”

“Then we’ll prove it. Come home without a mess on your clothes, and we’ll talk about it.”

Teddy frowns. “But—”

“Not in your school uniform.” Quentin stares at him levelly. “What do we say about gravity?”

Teddy huffs. “Gravity doesn’t like Coldwaters,” he says, like he’s reciting something, “and tomato sauce doesn’t come out of...” He mouths something to himself before finishing his sentence. “White polyester.”

Eliot muffles a grin. It's impossibly adorable to know Quentin's gravitational troubles are generational.

"It's good to learn the limits of the fabrics you wear," Eliot intones solemnly.

Teddy squints at Eliot, his scowl fading. “It is?”

Eliot nods.

“I guess I can change,” Teddy says.

Quentin mouths _thank you_ to Eliot.

"You're okay with me stealing your newest servant?" Quentin asks Julia, gesturing at Eliot.

Julia rolls her eyes. "Since when have I ever been able to stop you from going after _anything_ you want?"

Quentin's mouth goes slack. "You stop me all the time!"

"Yeah," Julia says, "when they're _stupid_ things."

"Come on," Teddy says, grabbing Eliot's hand and tugging him to the door. Eliot throws an apologetic _what can you do when your new boss is this adorable?_ expression in Julia's direction, and she smirks like she thoroughly understands.

"That reminds me," Quentin says, following them closely, "if a guy called Nigel calls about selling us a clock, say yes, we need it."

"Sure," Julia says.

"I'll explain later," Quentin calls back.

Julia flashes them a thumbs up as the three of them leave the store together.

Eliot trails behind, trying not to stare at Quentin as he jokes gently with his son on the way up the stairs to the apartment. This is ridiculous. He has to shut down thinking about Quentin. He has to. He's not running away from the potential of anything. Quentin's unavailable, and he lives in a place Eliot's spent years running away from.

It's not cowardly, forcing himself to stop thinking about Quentin in any other capacity than as a friendly port in an unusual, temporary storm. It's practical.

He feels a slight ache of disappointment in his chest anyway. If this briefest pain is what opening himself up to the possibility of love means, then Eliot doesn't think he's going to be a fan of it. Margo can't be right about _everything,_ surely?

Quentin ushers Teddy to get changed and Eliot leans against the breakfast bar, watching their interaction fondly, Teddy babbling a mile a minute about something fun he learned at school, Quentin indulging him by acting like he's never heard about it before. They're so cute together. Eliot wonders about Teddy's mother briefly. Having tidied the entire apartment in a fit of guilt, Eliot's only seen one photo of someone who must be Teddy's mother—in Teddy's room, a picture of Quentin and a red-headed woman with their arms around a much younger Teddy.

There are no other photos, like Eliot might expect if Teddy's mother had passed away. No shrine to the dead love of Quentin's life. Quentin had said _Teddy's mom isn't in the picture,_ but that could be a euphemism for death. Quentin could be the kind of person who deals with grief by shoving it in the back of the closet so he doesn't have to think about it, and Eliot's no stranger to that concept.

Eliot resigns himself to never knowing. He could ask, he thinks, but when he hears the echo of Quentin’s voice saying _Teddy's mom isn't in the picture,_ he can't entertain the idea. He can't fathom the notion of hurting Quentin on purpose.

Teddy disappears into the bathroom with a pile of clothes, with impeccable timing. Right after he vanishes, the rabbit appears.

Eliot blinks rapidly at the white and black bundle of fur. The juxtaposition of it startles Eliot—this muggle, magic-banned apartment suddenly inhabited by a magical Fillorian messenger rabbit—and so he ends up staring uselessly at the bunny.

"Eliot!" the bunny yelps, in a deep voice. "Found the portal!"

Eliot's very first impulse is to smile in joy. Margo. It has to be Margo. She must have found a way to send the bunny to him pandimensionally.

And then Eliot freaks out. Because the bunny's yelling again. "Eliot! Found the portal!"

Shit. _Shit._ It's a magical rabbit, _in an apartment where magic isn't allowed._

"What the hell?" Quentin breathes, looking alarmed as he hurries across the room. "Is that… a rabbit?" Quentin's eyebrows knot. "A talking rabbit? Please tell me you're seeing that too."

Eliot opens his mouth to explain and a second bunny pops in out of nowhere, silver and svelte with floppy ears.

"On my way, dickwad," the second bunny barks.

"Um," Quentin says, loudly, staring at the rabbits and pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand.

"Messenger bunnies," Eliot says, gesturing at them.

"Eliot!" The first bunny yells.

" _Dickwad,_ " the second interrupts, butting the other one with its soft pink nose.

"I told you. We use them in Fillory to send messages," Eliot says. " _This_ is how they deliver them."

"Are there any more coming?" Quentin stares at them, as the two rabbits chirp their messages again. His eyes are wide.

"Uh," Eliot says, "I don't know?" Quentin looks terrified. "Margo usually sends them in pairs, unless you've really pissed her off and you're allergic to rabbit fur."

"That's… very specific." Quentin's gaze slips to the bathroom door. "We have to get them out of here."

Eliot nods and moves with Quentin; they each grab a rabbit, moving in unison. It's nice; the only other person Eliot's ever had that sort of easy rhythm with is Margo. They nearly make it to the door, Quentin gearing up to pass Eliot the second rabbit so Eliot can flee upstairs with them, but there's a clattering noise in the bathroom and Quentin panics.

"Here," Quentin hisses, dashing to a storage closet that Eliot hadn't even had to tidy—it's empty apart from a vacuum cleaner and seven old coats—and quickly shoving the bunny inside, gesturing for Eliot to copy; Eliot does it barely in time, nudging the door closed with his foot just as Teddy exits the bathroom.

Teddy's expression is instantly dubious, his gaze flicking between both of them suspiciously. "Is something going on?"

"Eliot!" one of the bunnies yells, through the door.

Eliot starts coughing loudly, beating on his own chest with his fist. "Whew, sorry, must have inhaled some book dust."

"You know what would help with that, Eliot?" Quentin is smiling wide. _Too_ wide. Oh god. Apparently Quentin Coldwater is one thousand percent hopeless at being discreet. It's a wonder that he managed to check out the portal at Nigel's apartment without getting anything thrown at him too.

Trying his best not to feel like he's somehow landed in the middle of a pantomime, Eliot raises his eyebrows and looks at Quentin. "What would help, Quentin?"

"One of Chef Joe's apple martinis. And I bet he'll make you one without us even asking, he always does for Julia when she comes with us." Quentin's also talking way too loudly. Subtlety, thy name is not Quentin Coldwater. "We should go. Get a good table. Yeah."

Eliot coughs loudly over a bunny yelping a muffled, "Dickwad!"

Teddy's frown deepens. "What was that?"

Quentin looks stunned.

Eliot tries not to find it adorable. "Maybe Kady's having trouble."

"Right, yes," Quentin beams at Teddy. "Kady and Penny! Shouting. At each other."

"Dickwad," the bunny yelps again.

Quentin wrinkles his nose.

"Guess it does sound like Aunt Kady," Teddy agrees, but he still looks suspicious.

"I'm _really_ hungry," Eliot says. "They don't sell pizza where I come from."

Teddy's eyes widen. "Where do you live that doesn't sell pizza?"

"Fill—" Eliot starts, but Quentin elbows him, and wow, Quentin Coldwater might seem like a bundle of pillows and sunshine, but Teddy apparently got his physical strength from his father, because _oof._ "Philadelphia," Eliot finishes, wheezing through the syllables, as Quentin looks on in approval.

"Oh, cheesesteaks, not pizza," Teddy says, nodding sagely like it makes total sense.

"Mmhmm," Eliot agrees.

"Let's go," Quentin says, beckoning Teddy to come join them, opening the main door and gesturing for Eliot to exit too.

"Dickwad," the bunny shrieks, as they leave.

"Wow," Teddy comments, shaking his head, "Aunt Kady's mean when she's angry."

"She absolutely is," Quentin says, much more calmly. Then again, he's technically not lying, so Eliot supposes that makes a difference.

* * *

As soon as they enter _Bella Notte_ , Chef Joe immediately swoops over to greet them; he's a round faced smiling man with roughly the same dimensions as an egg. Chef Joe has a bushy mustache and beard, but no hair on the top of his head, adding to the egg aesthetic, and a very broad Italian accent that Eliot half-suspects is fake. He can't judge. He worked away his own Indiana accent carefully and ruthlessly. He can appreciate the effort it takes to change yourself into something that makes you hate yourself less.

Chef Joe shepherds the three of them to a table near the pizza oven, kissing Quentin exuberantly on both cheeks and then giving Eliot an assessing elevator glance. Apparently he approves of whatever he thinks Eliot is, because Eliot also gets two cheek kisses, and – true to Quentin's suspicion – Chef Joe immediately skids off to make Eliot an apple martini, along with an amusing story of _why_ it's his house special drink. Eliot doesn't necessarily believe that the Queen of England was saved by one of Joe's apple martinis, but it's an entertaining story nonetheless.

It seems like Quentin and Teddy really _are_ regulars at _Bella Notte_ , because Quentin only manages to get Teddy to sit down and eat one slice of pizza with them before Teddy's whisked off by a table of old men. Eliot watches them carefully, but all they seem to be doing is regaling him with stories.

Quentin snags Chef Joe as he ambles past their table. "Joe, you know how sometimes you leave your matchbox around to re-light the table candles, can you not do that today?"

Chef Joe folds up his round face. "I guess so, any particular reason?"

Quentin frowns. "I’m worried that Ted's having a bit of a pyro phase at the moment. I found some burnt papers in his bag for school on Monday. He swears it was a science thing at school, but...just to be sure?"

Chef Joe taps the side of his nose with one finger. "Don't worry, I got it."

"Pyro phase?" Eliot echoes.

Quentin pulls a face. "Pyromania. I guess every kid goes through a time when they're fascinated by fire. I don't know. There was burned papers in his schoolbag, Teddy was a bit shifty about them. I'm just being careful."

Eliot nods. "You're a good father."

Quentin huffs. "I'm glad you think so, at least."

Eliot glances over at the table, where Chef Joe is picking up what must be the abandoned box of matches.

"I'll be lucky if I get him back within an hour," Quentin says, startling Eliot's gaze back to his dining companion. Quentin's fondly watching his son talking with the men.

"He's a good kid," Eliot says. "Maybe a little too smart.”

"You should hear some of the parent-teacher meetings we’ve had," Quentin says. "Shit, speaking of smart, that reminds me. I should call Julia and ask her to retrieve our little noisy closet problem." He fumbles in his pocket for his phone and then frowns. "I should probably take this outside. Unless you mind…?"

"I think it's probably better that you make a call about talking rabbits elsewhere," Eliot whispers.

Quentin flashes a smile at him and excuses himself. Eliot can't help but watch as he goes.

When he looks up, Chef Joe is standing there with a plate of garlic bread that he puts down on the table. His expression is deeply knowing. "Quentin's a good man," Chef Joe says, as soon as Eliot makes eye contact with him.

"He really is," Eliot says.

Chef Joe nods. His round face is solemn and serious. "Good. Good. Him and his boy too. They're good boys. Strong. Survived much heartbreak. You will not add to his pain."

Eliot's eyebrows raise without his express permission. Where is this going? Eliot has the sudden urge to cross his legs protectively and he holds Chef Joe's gaze. "I'd hate it if I ever did," Eliot says.

Chef Joe looks solemn for a moment more, and then he beams. "I believe you, Mr.—"

"Eliot. Just Eliot," Eliot interrupts. "I… went to Quentin's school. Before his time."

Chef Joe's eyes widen. "Ah. You are skilled like him. Good. Me too. I was a Cottage boy in my time."

Eliot's eyebrows stay high in surprise. Chef Joe's a magician, and a Physical Kid, nonetheless? It shouldn't even be a surprise; Julia did say Quentin repaired an oven for him. "Well. _That_ explains why this apple martini was so good."

Chef Joe pulls a face. "That's natural _talent._ And flattery will get you everywhere, Eliot." He swipes Eliot's empty glass, heading back over to the bar, apparently to make Eliot another one. Eliot apologizes to his liver in advance; even for him, the martini had been strong.

"Looks like Chef Joe likes you," Quentin greets, as he comes back in, sliding the phone into his pocket.

"I think he gave me a shovel talk," Eliot says thoughtfully. He grins at Quentin, all teeth. "And what's not to like?"

Quentin blinks a few times as he settles back in his seat, noticing the garlic bread and picking up a piece. Eliot finds himself automatically tracking Quentin's tongue as he licks his lips after trying a bite of it, and he winces internally. Damn. Chef Joe's vaguely threatening talk is messing with him—Quentin’s off-limits. He needs to remember that.

Time to hurt himself on purpose, Eliot thinks. At least that's something in his wheelhouse.

"So tell me how you and Alice met," Eliot says.

"Right. Um. So. We have this client that keeps coming to us—Poppy Kline—she's a well-known uh—" Quentin lowers his voice for a moment, "—draconologist? Well, infamous, really. And she's good at... _finding_ things. Anyway, it's usually stuff that needs fixing. And she kept coming back and eventually Julia figured out—well, she was flirty, but I didn't know it was anything especially weird—"

"She was breaking things on purpose as an excuse to come see you," Eliot surmises. He can empathize with that impulse.

"Yeah, exactly," Quentin says, looking grateful that he doesn't have to put that into words. "Anyway, she kept hitting on me, for _months,_ and I panicked, and ended up blurting out that I couldn't date her because my wife had put me off redheads forever."

"Don't tell me she turned up with bleached hair next week?"

"Oh, no. She was offended. And said I had a stick up my ass. And said I reminded her of this theoretical studies expert she worked with sometimes, who also had a stick up _her_ ass, and we would be _perfect_ together."

"So you…let this overbearing stranger set you up with someone?"

Quentin looks at Eliot with a strained expression, like he can't believe it himself. "I know. I _know._ But she promised to back off if I went on one date with her friend, so I agreed."

"And it turned out to be Alice?"

"Actually, no. It was a woman called Emily. She wanted someone who would roleplay as an old professor that I think she had the hots for, I don't really know? I couldn't really process, by that point I was freaking out, glad that it was a public place, and Alice—she was studying in that café because of the free wifi—noticed me panicking and swooped in and rescued me."

Eliot can't help the grin that stretches across his face. "That's incredible. You were a damsel-in-distress and she was your knight in shining armor?"

"Yeah." Quentin smiles, a pretty pink tone lingering on his cheeks. "I was halfway to a panic attack and Alice calmed me down. She asked me on a date when it turned out we had some things in common—we both have Physical disciplines, and she's as much of a nerd as I am."

"And nearly as high-strung," Eliot says softly, remembering how angry she'd looked that morning.

Quentin narrows his eyes. "Aren't we all?"

"Speak for yourself. I'm very low maintenance," Eliot lies.

Quentin's eyebrows lift up accusingly. "Tell me now, hand on your heart, that you don't have a hair and skin routine."

Eliot's mouth falls open. "How _dare_ you insinuate—" he starts, and then he puts a hand to his hair, suddenly worried. "Does it look that bad?"

"No, it looks fine," Quentin says, but he doesn't sound too convincing.

Eliot sighs and pats his curls a couple more times before giving it up as a lost cause. He's been in Quentin's cupboards and bathroom. The man probably thinks coconut oil is purely for cooking.

"I'm glad Alice was there to rescue you," Eliot says. "And I like that she asked you. It shows she's a woman of taste."

Quentin's blush deepens. "I—thank you? I guess? Julia says I need to practice accepting compliments."

"Julia's right," Eliot says, wagging a finger appreciatively at Quentin, "but I'm not going to tell her that to her face, she seems like she's got an ego nearly as healthy as Margo's."

"There's a dance," Quentin confirms. "I learned much too late in my life not to encourage Julia's dances. There's choreography, Eliot. And _wiggling._ "

Eliot's brain goes neatly blank for a second when he pictures Quentin wiggling, that lovely ass swaying from side-to-side. Shit. No. Bad Eliot brain. Bad.

"I'll keep that in mind," Eliot says numbly, proud he's even managing words after _that_ mental image.

"Arielle used to say I danced like a duck on acid," Quentin says, rolling his eyes. "My dancing's not that bad. Julia's, on the other hand, is uh… what's the word? Dubious. That's the one. My dancing leaves Julia's dancing in the _dirt._ "

"Arielle?" Eliot repeats, before Quentin's face pinches and Eliot realizes. Shit. Teddy's mother. Arielle must be her name.

Quentin inhales through his nose, and Eliot finds himself moving without thought, putting his hand on Quentin's reassuringly. His hand is larger than Quentin's, and Eliot tries to pretend he doesn't feel something, seeing their hands like that. In another life, maybe Eliot could have been Quentin's heroic rescuer. Eliot's got some fancy engraved armor that he's never worn; he can picture himself in it, riding one of the talking horses, swooping Quentin away from some nebulous threat's reach…

Eliot's really not handling this _do not think improper thoughts about Quentin Coldwater_ thing well. But he can handle the _be supportive to someone who's gone out of their way to look after you_ thing, even if his brain is doing mental loop-de-loops about how nice Quentin would look, safe in his arms.

"You don't have to talk about it," Eliot says. "We're strangers. You don't owe me anything."

"I know that," Quentin says, and he offers Eliot a shy smile that's somehow warm and _intimate._ They're in a crowded pizza restaurant, Chef Joe ranting at his sous-chef, customers chatting raucously, Teddy squealing in delight in the background as one of his entertainers tells a joke, but somehow, it feels like it's only the two of them in the world. "You're probably one of the safest people to talk to. You're basically Cinderella with a later curfew."

"That's not the worst thing I've ever been called," Eliot jokes, and removes his hand from Quentin's. The imprint of the touch remains behind like an echo.

"Arielle and I got together not long after school," Quentin says. He looks around, and, checking that Teddy's still occupied, he quickly casts the same spell he did in the park, so they can talk without muggles overhearing. "She wasn't from Brakebills, but her parents were both magicians, so she still moved in our circles, even though she couldn't operate in them."

"She was a squib, huh?"

Quentin nods and stares at the garlic bread in his hand like it holds all the answers. "She said she was fine with being immersed in the magical community, and Julia really liked her, and—she was nice. And I loved her. She was lovely."

Eliot watches him sadly, aching on Quentin’s behalf, because it's clear Quentin's trying to convince himself of something he doesn’t quite believe anymore. "You said you didn't believe in True Love," Eliot says, gently. "Was Arielle the same?"

"Oh god, yeah. Neither of us really believed in it. When we met—at a farmer's market, I collided into her, because you don't know me, but—"

"I _do_ know that you and gravity have a contentious relationship, yes."

"Anyway, she was crying when we met, which I guess should have been a sign," Quentin sighs. "Her lunk of an ex had just broken her heart, and I comforted her, and one thing led to another, and—it was a rebound relationship, god, I should have known from that start it was doomed, but I was naive. And she got more and more resentful of the magic. So that's when I started to try and stop using it in front of her, we reduced the amount of time we hung out with Julia, and it was almost working. Until—"

"Until?"

Quentin's gaze moves from his garlic bread to where Teddy is laughing loudly, and Quentin's beautiful face creases into a soft, pained expression that Eliot wants to erase from Quentin's face so thoroughly he never has to use it again. It's an unreasonable urge. No one can go through life continually happy. But it doesn't stop Eliot from suddenly and passionately _wanting_ it for Quentin and Teddy. Both of them deserve a life where there's something to smile about every single day.

"Until she got pregnant," Quentin says, smiling softly at Teddy, quiet pride for his son shining from him despite the sadness in his voice. "She got increasingly fixated on the idea that Teddy might be magical too, that she'd be further excluded from the world. And I tried to reassure her that it wouldn't be like that. That it didn't have to be like that. We could relocate away from our magical apartment building, we could cut out magic from our lives if it meant being together, but the fear about Teddy… it broke her."

Eliot's heart hurts in what must be a bare echo of Quentin's agony, and it's painful enough. He can't imagine what Quentin went through. "I'm so sorry."

"She couldn't take it. When Teddy was barely three, she...left a single voicemail. She was sorry but she couldn't stay. Thankfully Teddy was so young, I don't think he was aware of what was going on." Quentin exhales roughly and shrugs. "I guess that's why I've been so stupidly slow with Alice. I keep expecting _everyone_ to leave me."

Eliot stares helplessly. He wishes he could reach into the past and save Quentin. He gets what Alice saw in him on that first day; he understands the impulse to protect Quentin Coldwater. But he's in public, and all he can do is reach out and awkwardly put his hand on Quentin's. Just to let him know he's not alone now.

Quentin turns to Eliot with a flash of a thankful smile. "I can't say it didn't hurt at the time. But I'd do it all again." He looks back at Teddy, the gratitude intensifying. "I'd go through _all_ of it again, because of what I got in return."

"Yeah," Eliot says, following Quentin's gaze. "Yeah, I think I get what you mean." He pulls his hand away, not wanting Quentin to feel crowded, and after a moment, Quentin turns back to face the table. His eyes look wet, but there's less tension in his shoulders.

Sometimes it's good to share the pain with someone more objective.

"So that's why you keep magic from Teddy?" Eliot asks. "Because his mom was so upset that she wasn't magical and you're trying to save him from it?"

Quentin wrinkles his nose. "Kind of? I mean. It's an aspect. I don't want Teddy to be disappointed to find out magic is real and there's a chance he won't be able to do it himself. So that's part of it. But also… I used to think magic could fix everything. Which, y'know, mending discipline, of course I'm gonna think like that. I guess I want Teddy to be able to grow up in a world where there's never an easy fix, so if it turns out he does have magic, he won't take it for granted." He nods to himself. "I didn't have magical parents, I only learned I was magic during my Brakebills interview, and I think that helped me in the long run."

Ah, yes, Quentin had said that about his parents before. Eliot's still having trouble reconciling that fact with Quentin's competent casting. It doesn't compute. Quentin's so _natural_ with magic _._

"My blood family weren't magical either," Eliot said. "But it didn't matter. It wouldn't have mattered if magic hadn't existed. I'd have been gone the instant I turned eighteen either way."

"I'm sorry."

"I'm not. Margo's all the family I've ever need. I don't even deserve her. I wish—I wish you could meet her."

"It's still wild to me that you and Margo might have been in my school, if life turned out a different way. I don't think you'd have even noticed me."

Eliot snorts before he can stop himself. "I'd have noticed you."

"You're just being polite. I was a nerd. A super nerd. Even before Brakebills. I've _always_ been obsessed with magic."

"Oh, the card tricks."

"Yeah," Quentin grins. "I used to perform them at school all the time. _That_ was back when I still thought I was straight and also that you could pick up girls with card tricks." He dives in his pockets looking for something, unaware Eliot's poor very-not-straight brain is crying at the confirmation that he really _could_ have flirted with Quentin, had Alice not gotten there first. Dammit.

"Well, thankfully you've learned and grown as an individual," Eliot says solemnly, smirking a little.

"Yeah, now I do coin tricks too," Quentin says, and deftly makes a nickel pass over his hand, manipulating it with those wonderful fingers of his.

Eliot grins. "Oh my god. That's amazing."

Quentin lifts up his hands, flashily showing off a few tricks—making the coin jump from hand to hand, gracefully spinning it and manipulating it with ease. Quentin doesn't even have to watch as he does it. "This was how my magic first manifested," Quentin explains, making a few dramatic waves and leaning awkwardly over the table to pull the coin from behind Eliot's ear. "I didn't realize I was using magic to cheat a few steps."

"That's...impressive," Eliot says, entranced by how deftly Quentin moves the coin; he's almost disappointed when Quentin flips it into the tip jar a few meters away.

"I can throw cards like a boss too," Quentin says.

"How _did_ the girls restrain themselves from throwing their panties at teen you," Eliot deadpans, although he imagines teenage-Eliot would definitely have noticed Quentin Coldwater. Then again, he probably would have scoffed at the tricks—he's not proud of the person he used to be.

But that doesn't matter. What matters is who he is _now._ And on paper, he might be a temporarily-displaced magician King eating pizza in New York, but he’s also the kind of man who can make Quentin Coldwater smile like he's smiling now, wide and infectious. Eliot smiles back at him, unable to stop. Yeah, that's the type of man he’s proud to be.


	8. Quentin

Quentin doesn't think he's ever had so much fun doing an evening grocery run.

Julia deals with most of the groceries. Quentin leaves her a list, and once a week, Penny blips Julia and Kady out of state, and sometimes out of country, to get more interesting, locally sourced food that's not in season in New York. Teddy never questions why they end up with out-of-season fruit and vegetables, he just takes it for granted that you can get _anything_ in New York for a price.

Penny grumbles about being a delivery truck, but grumbles _more_ if he doesn't get to be the one to go shopping. Everyone needs a hobby, Quentin supposes.

Any supplies they need outside those times, they take it in turns to grab locally. Quentin's brain isn't compatible with large grocery stores. The neon lighting gives him a headache and he gets quickly overwhelmed. Sometimes the local bodegas hit him the same—he feels cramped and claustrophobic, even in the spacious ones. Something about food being stacked tall makes Quentin twitchy in a miserable way he can't explain.

But with Teddy there, and Eliot by his side, it's not bad at all. Quentin feels like he can breathe. The shop owner looks at them quizzically like all three of them must be tourists, even though Quentin knows he's been in here multiple times before—usually for milk. Maybe Quentin looks like a brand new person today.

Quentin tries to picture how he normally looks—alone, head lowered, shoulders bunched, face drenched in shadows, mumbling as he hands over the money and tries to escape before the walls crash in on him. And tonight, he's standing upright, loose instead of tensely miserable, and a smile on his face he can't shake. He catches his own reflection for a moment in the glass of a fridge door, and barely recognizes it as his own.

And then there's Eliot. Quentin looks at him and for a moment is frozen by the scene: Eliot is busy pretending he can't do basic math to figure out which packet of eggs is the cheapest, and Teddy's laughing at him, and Quentin's heart _squeezes_ at the way they look together _._ God. How is Eliot even _real?_

Three things he can smell. Three things he can hear. Three things he can see. Grease on his fingers from Chef Joe's pizza, the faint sour smell because someone's dropped beer somewhere and not cleaned it up, and another shopper squeezing past Quentin, stinking of Axe body spray. Teddy's laughter, a taxi driver swearing, the soft hum of the fridge. A pyramid stack of toilet rolls, the upturned nose Teddy definitely inherited from Quentin, Eliot's curls, even more wayward than they had been earlier, but looking just as soft.

This is all real. Which means the smile unfamiliarly stretching his face is real, and Eliot is _real._ But he'll be going tomorrow, and that idea feels like a physical hit to the chest.

That's the thing about life. You never know how long anyone is going to be in it. Quentin has already stolen every possible second of Eliot for the hours they _have_ had him for. He needs to push that weird ache aside and enjoy the limited time they have left.

Before Eliot goes back to fucking _Fillory._ Quentin thinks it's probably okay that he's still having a hard time to adjust to that fact; it had taken half of his time at Brakebills to stop waiting to be thrown out on his ass for being a massive faker.

Quentin doesn't usually like being out too late at night—if it's really dark, Julia sends Kady with him to pick Teddy up from karate. He should probably be more bothered about how much help he needs, but they hashed it out years ago—Julia thinks it's good practice for when the three of them become parents too, and doesn't Quentin help them out as much in return? His mending work kept them financially afloat for years. It's how family is supposed to work.

Eliot makes him feel _safe_. Maybe it's his height, or the fact he knows Battle Magic. Or that looking at Eliot makes him think about all the conversations they've been having. Quentin has a Cacodemon in his back. And he's a magician. There's very little that could actually hurt him. So what is he scared of?

Breaking things. Always...breaking things. But that's what Eliot had said, earlier—that everything breaks. And the fact it doesn't have to be permanent is a soothing idea. Quentin looks down at his own hands for a second. He's always felt slightly weird about his Discipline, about expecting something _more_ from it, because he had waited so long to discover it. Hearing _Repair of Small Objects_ had felt like the ultimate anticlimax. But the way Eliot talked about it… Quentin might wake objects up, remind them of what they used to be, what they _could_ be. Eliot had somehow breathed that life into Quentin's Discipline.

Maybe it's okay that Quentin breaks more things than most people. Because he can fix them too. Without Eliot's prompting, he might have given up on trying to fix things with Alice, consigning her to the broken category. It's funny, Quentin's been so focused on _Teddy_ getting to learn how to do things without magic, he'd forgotten how many things didn't really need magic to be fixed.

Quentin inhales and exhales slowly, as steadily as he can, before smiling at Teddy and heading with him and Eliot to the counter to pay. Life's like that, always making you learn new things about yourself, long after you thought you were complete.

Sometimes Quentin learns things the hard way, like how much it hurts when your spouse leaves you. Sometimes Quentin learns things the _long_ way, like three years at a secret magical post-grad school. And sometimes, apparently Quentin's gonna learn important life lessons from his son socking a stranger right in the face with a door.

The walk back to their building is nice. Teddy fits between Quentin and Eliot neatly on the sidewalk, like they're matching mirrored brackets to Teddy's exuberant exclamation. Teddy regales them both with war tales from his pizzeria buddies, making sound effects to go with them. By the time they get up to the apartment, Teddy has nearly worn himself out. Eliot insists on putting the groceries away while Quentin starts getting Teddy through his nighttime routine.

"We’re not sleeping upstairs tonight?" Teddy yawns.

Quentin casts a glance across to where Eliot's rearranging Quentin's fridge and then back at Teddy. "Do you want to?" Teddy shakes his head. "Fine. We'll sleep down here. Go get in your pajamas. And remember to pick a new book, we finished the last one."

"And then brush my teeth," Teddy sighs. He makes as if he's going to move off and then darts in and presses a kiss against Quentin's cheek. "Today was okay, I guess," he mumbles.

Quentin reaches out to ruffle Teddy's hair and laughs when his son ducks out of reach. "High praise, always appreciated."

Teddy runs off to his bedroom and Quentin watches him go before turning back and eyeing the couch. It's an extra-long one. Eliot should fit. Nodding to himself, Quentin heads to the linen closet to pull out the spare set of sheets, and finds a new comforter and set of pillows at the top that he was supposed to put on his own bed months ago. Well, Quentin's never claimed _not_ to be a human disaster.

Which Quentin promptly illustrates when he tries to put a new slipcover on the duvet and ends up stuck inside it somehow. For fuck's sake, how is this is life? He's a grown adult. He has a successful business, he has the cutest son on the _planet,_ and he can't do a simple household task?

Bang goes any thought of Quentin suavely untangling himself from the mess, too, because he can hear Eliot's warm throaty chuckle before he's even managed to figure out what his arms are doing (crossed? Around himself? _How?_ ) and he can see a shadow growing larger, Eliot moving closer.

"Here," Eliot says, his lovely, almost melodic voice only a little muffled by the amount of cotton Quentin's swimming in. "Let me help."

"I could have done it," Quentin lies, as Eliot dexterously rescues him from the fabric.

Eliot's smiling too widely for Quentin to regret looking like a complete idiot. "I'm sure you could," Eliot says. "And thank you. I don't want to put you out."

"You're not putting me out. It's a few sheets on a couch."

"I had fun tonight."

"It was nice to have company. You saw how quickly my kid abandoned me in the restaurant." Quentin shakes his head wryly. "He's gonna hit the age soon when he won't want _anything_ to do with me."

Eliot pauses from his sheet-wrangling, somehow making the household task look way more elegant than it had any right to be, to put a hand on Quentin's shoulder. Quentin looks at it briefly. Eliot's hands are so _large,_ and strong the way most magicians' hands are. It's funny how this simple touch makes him feel protected somehow, in a way Quentin hasn't felt in _years_. Normally he has to bury himself under a pile of blankets with a fuckton of pillows and a Fillory book to feel even _half_ this safe.

"You and Teddy seem to have a very strong relationship," Eliot says, soothingly. "He clearly worships the ground you walk on. Puberty might make it awkward for while, but it can't remove that foundation. And when the storms of his hormones clear, you'll still be right there for him, his biggest cheerleader, the way you always have been. That's important, Quentin. He'll appreciate that and love you for it for the rest of his life. What's a few tumultuous years of shouting and door slamming in the face of forever, huh?"

Quentin stares up at Eliot shakily. "Do you always know the exactly right thing to say, or is that like, a secondary Discipline for you?"

"Believe me," Eliot says, pulling his hand back to resume putting the sheets onto the couch, somehow managing to make it look like it's always _supposed_ to have been a bed, not somewhere to sit, "I am not as known for my smooth dialogue as I wish I was. You should probably make the most of it, while it's happening."

"For the limited time you're here."

"Exactly," Eliot says. "Instead of _carpe diem,_ it's _carpe_ Eliot."

" _Carpe Eliot_ ," Quentin repeats, dubiously. "Seize the Eliot?"

Eliot grins. " _Always_ seize the Eliot. That is _excellent_ advice."

"Yeah, I'm starting to see what you mean about not being known for your smooth dialogue," Quentin smirks when Eliot affects a brief expression of outrage.

"Oh," Eliot says, blinking. "I forgot—I saw it when I was putting things away, I think someone left a note for you on the counter?"

"Oh!" Quentin starts to move for the counter and then freezes, turning back to look at the pillows that still need pillowcases.

"I can handle it." Eliot rolls his eyes. "You're already doing enough putting me up."

Quentin nods distractedly and moves to the counter. He knows who's left the note before he even opens the folded-over paper. Penny's handwriting is very distinctive. He doesn't say it out loud often because Penny's as good at accepting compliments as Quentin is, but Penny has the nicest handwriting out of the trio. Quentin quickly explains his conclusion to Eliot; Eliot laughs when he describes how Kady writes like it personally offends her to have to hold a pen, and that Julia must have stolen her handwriting from a doctor for all the sense it makes.

"So what does it say?" Eliot asks.

"Hey, loser," Quentin reads, "we've taken care of your infestation, they're upstairs and even whinier than you. How? Science doesn't know. Might have a lead for your new friend with the hair. If you brought leftovers this time, bring them upstairs asap, I'm hungry and you owe me. Penny."

"I put the box on the bottom shelf," Eliot says, nodding at the fridge.

"He probably doesn't deserve it," Quentin says, but dutifully goes to retrieve it. Normally he'd only take Penny, Kady, and Julia half of his leftover haul—Chef Joe _always_ sends him home with extras—but with the bodega stop, Quentin and Teddy won't be hurting for food options for a few days. Quentin puts the pizza down and opens his mouth to tell Eliot he'll probably have to go and see what Penny wants.

"Dad?" Teddy pokes his head out of his room. "Do you think Eliot could read my bedtime story tonight?"

Quentin blinks, several times, blindsided by the request.

"Oh, I wouldn't want to intrude," Eliot says.

Teddy's face falls. "You don't want to?"

Eliot looks up at Quentin, looking deeply unsure.

"If you want to, it's fine by me," Quentin says, softly. He can be selfless about this. He's going to get to do it for years and years and this is Eliot's only chance to read a bedtime story to the best kid in the world.

Eliot nods at Quentin and then grins at Teddy. "Out here, though," Eliot says to Teddy, and when Teddy's face falls, Eliot explains, "The lighting in your room is too low for my old eyes. I'm gonna go wash my hands so I don't get grease on your book, you pick your story and settle into that armchair, and I'll meet you back here."

Teddy nods and disappears back in his room to find the book.

"I should go and catch up with Penny, probably," Quentin says, as Eliot washes his hands at the kitchen sink.

Eliot looks at Quentin for a moment, his expression impassive. "How long would you normally read to Teddy for?"

"It's a Friday, so, half an hour," Quentin glances at the clock. "Probably should have let you know that before you agreed, huh?"

"If you want to go up and talk to them now while I keep an eye on Teddy and read, I'm fine with that. I guess it's not like you can take Teddy up with you, considering."

Quentin thinks about how awkward it's been in the past, making sure Teddy's safe and having enough private time to talk about any magical issues. "Would you mind?"

"I know you'll be a couple of floors away if anything happens."

Quentin contemplates the situation. He trusts Eliot, enough that he doesn't mind Eliot sleeping for the night in the same apartment, but he has to be practical. He's known Eliot for a day and a half. It's probably not necessary, but Quentin takes a moment to check that the wards Julia placed on the apartment last night are still in place—if Teddy ends up distressed, Quentin will know about it, instantly.

Teddy wanders out of his room clutching—oh, _Tom's Midnight Garden_. One of Julia's picks. Quentin waits for Teddy to get settled in the armchair and spares a small smile for the fact that Teddy's got his favorite pillow out too and has wrapped his tiny arms around it as he settles in. Eliot, bless him, is taking this whole thing _so_ seriously, clearing his throat dramatically and making sure Teddy's comfortable before he begins.

" _If, standing alone on the back doorstep, Tom allowed himself to weep tears, they were tears of anger_ ," Eliot begins to read, and Quentin quietly picks up the pizza box and slips out of the room. The faster he goes, the faster he can get back.

When he elbows his way through the door into the main area of the penthouse, he sees Penny and Josh in the living room. Josh looks like he's busy reclaiming his spot on the couch, carefully making his own stack of blankets ready to spend the night, and Penny is lying on his stomach, feeding bits of salad leaves to the messenger bunnies, who've been set up in a run in the corner of the room that Quentin vaguely recognizes as Julia's childhood rabbit run.

Whereas Quentin was only allowed the one hamster, the Wickers had been much less reserved. Julia's sister even had her own pony. Julia preferred smaller creatures, and she'd had several—a cat, a lizard, a canary, five guinea pigs, four rabbits, and a tarantula that had nearly soured Quentin's crush on her in one fell swoop. Although, that may have been the point.

"Oh, dude, sweet," Penny breathes, catching sight of the box in Quentin's hands; he's up and on his feet in seconds. Quentin watches the smooth movement enviously. Penny's confident in his own skin in a way Quentin has never been. "Chef Joe makes the best pizza."

Quentin doesn't even have to put the box down—it's already in Penny's hands and he's flipping it open, grinning at the sight of the contents. "You said you had a lead?" Quentin asks.

"I said _might,_ " Penny says as he extracts a wedge of the pie and folds it in half before shoving it in his mouth.

Quentin doesn't rise to the bait. Years of Penny have taught him that falling for his traps just causes a bigger headache.

"Don't think I didn't hear that unspoken slight about my pizza," Josh murmurs from the couch. "Fuck you very much, FYI."

"The insult would have been wasted if you didn't hear it," Penny mumbles, because why be polite and swallow your food before speaking?

"Sorry for stealing the couch from you last night, man," Quentin nods at Josh. "Appreciated it."

"De nada, de rien," Josh sing-songs. "The spare bedroom has a fun _chi._ I appreciated the vibe change."

"I think he's actually sold his apartment," Penny mutters.

Quentin frowns. "You sold the Palazzo?"

Josh chuckles at the overblown nickname for his crummy bedsit. "I'm restless, man. Penny's been telling me all about this Neitherlands place. Thinking I might schedule me a trip, once things calm down here."

Quentin and Penny share a wry expression; things around here _rarely_ calm down.

"What would you do there?" Quentin asks, because he always likes to be supportive of his friends' hopes and dreams, even if privately he's skeptical.

"Might try and find Middle-Earth," Josh says, flopping down on his nest of blankets. "If Fillory is real, why not Middle-Earth too?"

"What would you even do there?" Penny rolls his eyes at Josh. "Fuck an elf?"

Josh's face lights up. "I mean, yeah. Fuck yeah. And maybe a hobbit, I bet they're pretty freaky in the sheets." His eyes go vacant behind the thick lenses of his glasses. "Imagine _that_ hairy footjob."

"With your luck," Kady says, wandering down the stairs barefoot to join them; she's dressed in a long white button-up and nothing else, elegantly displaying her long legs to their best advantage, "you'd end up stuck in _teletubbies_ land."

"Bet he'd try and fuck one of those too," Penny says, offering the pizza box to Kady. She leans over and kisses him wetly on the cheek before sliding a piece out and leaning against the counter.

"I would _not_ fuck a teletubby," Josh loudly protests.

"What's going on?" Julia asks, her head peering over the balustrade. Her hair looks mussed and her shirt and shorts look disheveled too. Quentin doesn't need to guess what they've been up to. It's hard to remember that Julia, Penny, and Kady have been together for ten years when they still act like they're in their honeymoon period.

"Josh wants to fuck a teletubby," Kady says, and waves the pizza at Julia in invitation. Julia's face lights up as she hurries to the stairs.

"I said _hobbit,_ " Josh says. "I want to fuck a _hobbit._ "

"Yeah," Julia says wryly, "that's so much better, Hoberman."

As Julia heads down to join them, Quentin eyes the crystal Julia has set up to monitor his apartment. It's still placid. Everything's fine downstairs.

"What would you even do if you ended up stuck in Teletubby land?" Quentin asks. "Cook tubby custard?"

"I'm a great cook," Josh says, looking offended. "I _could._ Tubby custard. Tubby pies. Bet there's some awesome tubby fruits that I could make into tubby jelly."

"The word tubby is losing all meaning for me," Kady sighs.

"It’s a good word to describe my eventual state of being, if Chef Joe agreed to cook this for us every night," Julia says, happily smiling at her pizza. "Thanks for bringing some back for us, Q."

"I would have made you wait,” Quentin says. “but Penny left a note?"

"Ah, yeah," Penny says, putting the pizza down. "Pearl found the right fountain, she thinks. She's tracking down a contact because she _thinks_ the Neitherlands fountain that leads to Earth might be connected to one of the other magic schools."

"Yeah, I mean, they always said at Brakebills that they built the school around the seven fountains, rather than the other way around," Julia says. "It makes sense that you could go from one fountain to another."

"Although in the Fillory books, the Chatwins go _in_ through the fountain with rams heads, but land in different places in Fillory every time," Quentin says.

"Yeah, but that's because you only get access if Ember and Umber want you to, in the book," Julia says, "so maybe if, like, a god intervenes with fountain transit, they can disrupt the signal, drop you off at a different station. The buttons Jane got that went missing—Eliot said the one he and Margo found in the well transported them instantly by touch to the Neitherlands—so clearly travel _without_ the fountains is possible, even if you can't bypass the Neitherlands entirely."

Quentin pulls a face. "So did Pearl say anything else useful? Or was it only confirmation that Fillory was real, because we kinda already knew that."

Penny exhales roughly like Quentin's said something exhausting. "What she _also_ found was a library."

"A library?" Kady straightens up, suddenly interested. Julia looks bright-eyed too. "What sort of library?"

"She doesn't know yet. She disappeared when she saw a couple of men in suits who looked hostile." Penny looks at Julia and Kady. "She doesn't want to go back on her own. I promised to help do some reconnaissance."

"I'm coming with you," Kady says, instantly.

"I can blink out of danger's way in a second—" Penny starts.

"And if Kady stays right by your side, you can blink _both_ of you out of there," Julia says, fiercely. "Heaven knows I'm never happy with how often the both of you run face first into dangerous situations, but it settles my stomach knowing one of you can teleport and one of you can blast the fuck out of anyone. If you go, Kady or I go."

"Or what?" Penny asks, drawing himself up taller to stare at Julia.

"Or you join Josh on the couch," Kady says, and Julia grins, wide and confident with that victory.

Penny sags and sighs loudly. " _Fine._ "

Quentin smothers the grin when Josh mimes cacking a whip because, well, he also does whatever Kady and Julia tell him to do, so it's not like he's any better. It's probably just Quentin's fate in life to be surrounded by terrifyingly competent women. Alice is no different.

"Hey, the rabbits aren't swearing anymore," Quentin says in sudden realization.

"They save it for when they want food and we're not quick enough to get it for them," Julia says, moving over to Quentin's side to grip his arm excitedly. "Aren't they cool?"

"Eliot says that's how they send messages around Fillory," Quentin says. "They must have some sort of traveling blood in them too?"

"I told Pearl about them as well," Penny mumbles through a second slice of pizza. "She says she might know someone who maybe knows something about animals with traveler blood. She's gonna get back to us in a couple of days. So if this Eliot dude's still stuck here by then, we've got an avenue of where to look to get him home."

She might know someone who maybe knows something. Well, it's a lead at least. It's a chance. And it's better than leaving Eliot stranded here, should this Margo of his not be able to open the portal after all.

"I should get back," Quentin says. "I don't want to leave Teddy with Eliot for too long."

Julia squeezes Quentin's arm comfortingly again. "Is Teddy in bed already?"

"Soon," Quentin says. "He wanted Eliot to read his bedtime story first."

"Ouch, he picked a stranger over you," Kady says. "That's gotta sting."

Quentin puffs out his cheeks. "It didn't until you framed it that way, thanks."

"I live to make your life brighter," Kady grins.

"I thought you lived to make _my_ life brighter," Julia pouts, until Kady reaches over and strokes Julia's hair.

"To be fair," Quentin says, smiling at her, "same difference." Because to him, it is. Kady and Penny make Julia happy, and that alone brings light to Quentin’s life.

* * *

When Quentin slides back into his apartment, making sure not to smash through the door and disrupt proceedings, Teddy's so engrossed by the story he doesn't even notice Quentin come in—Eliot does, but only shows it by the corner of his mouth lifting up. Eliot's at the bit where Tom's quizzing his uncle about the nature of time, and his uncle is responding about how some things are impossible, like people being invisible. Tom opines about the adults not believing him. Maybe there's more magic in this book than Quentin remembered.

God, Quentin must be more tired than he thought, because he almost gets emotional, seeing Teddy's eyes so lit up by the story, seeing Eliot doing voices for each of the characters, taking time to narrate it, even making the prose rise and fall interestingly. Eliot's a born storyteller and Quentin's feeling quite warm and tender about the way he's making all this effort to entertain Quentin's son. Quentin's eyes feel suspiciously moist and he blinks a few times so that Eliot and Teddy won't look up to see him in inexplicable floods of tears.

"Time for bed," Quentin sing-songs, when Eliot finishes the chapter.

"Aww," Teddy sighs, and his gaze slips to the corner of the room and the cupboard behind their television. While Quentin isn’t as fluent with technology as he should be, Teddy’s a fan, and Quentin did cave and get Teddy a game system last year. Quentin cheats and keeps it locked up with magic outside of Teddy’s limited weekly allotment of gaming time. The other parents outside of Teddy’s school bemoan their kids learning to evade parental child locks. Thank goodness for magic saving Quentin from _some_ regular parenting problems—Julia has enchanted the Playstation too so that anyone who tries to swear at Teddy gets inexplicably booted offline.

"Fornite _tomorrow_ ," Quentin says, on autopilot.

Teddy opens his mouth to argue but then yawns and looks furious with himself. "Fine. But only because Eliot promised he'd make me a pancake that looks like New York."

Quentin eyes Eliot, who shrugs—apparently they haven't just been reading the book.

"I'm going to borrow your shower before bed if you don't mind," Eliot says, as Quentin moves to help Teddy sleepily to his feet.

"Yeah, that's fine," Quentin says. The pipes are noisy through the walls, but Teddy's half-asleep now—it won't take him long to nod off, and Teddy can sleep through _anything;_ if that was a Discipline on its own, Quentin would be continually testing him for other displays of magic.

"If I had a magic clock, I'd want it to send me somewhere more fun than a garden," Teddy says, as Quentin tucks him into his bed.

Quentin hears the noise of the shower being turned on, and he tries not to think about how naked Eliot is right now.

"I'm not sure a magic clock is in your future," Quentin says, and feels horrible about the almost-lie.

"Tom's uncle would agree with you," Teddy mumbles. "But he was wrong."

"I'll let you in on a secret," Quentin says, stroking Teddy's hair and smiling sadly at his son. "Sometimes adults are. And it's okay to be wrong, at first. It's what we do _after_ we realize we're wrong that's the important thing." Quentin leans in and presses a kiss to Teddy's forehead. "Try and get to sleep. If you're still awake by my bedtime, you're gonna get tickled."

"Ahhhhh," Teddy mumbles incoherently, as he snuggles deeper down under his blankets.

Quentin smiles at him. "You gotta blow the light off."

Teddy snaps open one eye balefully. "That doesn't work on me anymore, dad.”

Quentin waggles his eyebrows. "Do you want the light off or not?"

Teddy sighs dramatically, and puffs out his cheeks before letting the air go noisily, Quentin timing the switch to the action.

"Night dad," Teddy murmurs sleepily.

Quentin allows himself ten seconds of standing and staring before heading back out into the main room.

Eliot's still in the bathroom—he'd mentioned the lack of running water in Fillory, so Quentin can't blame him for making the most of indoor plumbing while he has it. Quentin takes a deep breath and looks around his unfamiliarly-clean apartment. Eliot had turned the couch into a passable bed, but sat on it to read to Teddy, so there's a mild indent in the sheet and Quentin finds himself caught on that for longer than he means to be.

In the morning, Eliot will leave to check out that portal, and the messenger bunnies say that Eliot's friend is working on getting him home too, so there's every chance that this time, their goodbyes will stick. Quentin's actually going to miss him.

It's funny. Quentin has so much to look forward to. Alice is coming to dinner tomorrow, to formally meet all his friends. That'll be nice. So why is his skin crawling? It's cold. Is it cold? Quentin crosses the floor and stares blankly at the thermostat. It doesn't seem to be broken. His hand is halfway up to reaching for it, to check magically if there's a fault, before he shakes himself. Teddy's down a single hallway. No magic. _No magic._

Quentin goes to the closet to look for a spare blanket. Eliot might need that, if it does get colder; the blanket on the back of the couch is too thin. There's a blanket that matches his mosaic-inspired rug somewhere at the back. He's reaching for it when he realizes that all of this is—illogical. Absolutely illogical. They have a fully furnished apartment, next door. There's no reason that they shouldn't have put Eliot up in there—last night _or_ tonight.

Quentin hadn't even considered it for a second. He hadn't even hesitated to offer Eliot his own bed last night. There had just been this visceral _need_ rushing through him to keep Eliot safe, to keep him somewhat close, _somehow._ Quentin feels unsteady and he yanks the blanket down awkwardly, gathering it in his hands.

The blanket's difficult to hold onto. Or Quentin's trembling. He makes it over to the couch and ruins Eliot's neat sheets by dropping heavily onto them, suddenly unable to stand. Eliot's going tomorrow, he'll be gone. He'll be leaving. People always leave. People always—they always leave. They always leave him. They always—

Julia hasn't, Quentin reminds himself, shakily. Julia's never left him. Sometimes people stay. Eliot's leaving but that's nothing personal, he's not _leaving,_ he's going home.

 _He's leaving,_ Quentin's brain whispers back. _He's leaving, he's leaving, he's leaving._ Quentin's eyes feel hot. Stop it. _Stop it._ He tries to count to ten, but his attempt to inhale slowly sticks in his throat and he chokes past it, feeling dizzy.

Alice might leave tomorrow too. When she realizes how inept Quentin is, how much he needs other people. Rescuing him won't seem cute anymore when she has to do it all the time. People always say they're fine with depression and anxiety until they see the ugly side of it. This is why he shouldn't let her close, because if she leaves now, it won't hurt as much.

Tomorrow's going to be rough, then. Eliot leaving, and then Alice meeting Quentin's friends, and she'll wonder why such cool people are friends with someone as pathetic as Quentin and then it will be all over, and Quentin—

"Ssshhh," Eliot's voice says, warm in Quentin's ear, and strong arms are suddenly pulling him close. There's a pressure on Quentin's back, one of Eliot's large hands rubbing up and down his back, soothing him. "You're okay. You're safe. You're not alone."

"I'm sorry," Quentin mumbles, "I'm sorry, it's—sometimes—" He trails off, miserable that Eliot's seen him like this. "I told you. My brain breaks sometimes."

Eliot shifts until Quentin can see him. He doesn't have a judgmental expression on his face. No impatience. That helps, as much as it also feels unbearable. Kindness is sometimes the most difficult thing to believe. "Do you need anything?" Eliot's voice is low and level. "Is there anything specific that helps, when things get too much?"

Quentin's eyes hurt and he shakes his head. "Sometimes the bad thoughts get stuck. And I can hold them in until Teddy goes to bed, and then—they go around and around, like they're on a carousel. One of those nightmare ones with the garishly painted horses and the—the music-box tune."

"And it's always playing in a minor key."

"Yeah. Yeah."

Eliot's arms are still around him, gathering him in close. It makes Quentin feel safe. Protected. Like he can breathe a little lighter. "Sometimes when thoughts get stuck in my head, I get them out somehow, writing, or talking. It can stop that irritating looping thing."

"Alice. Tomorrow. I—if I let her close—and she doesn't like it, doesn't like me when I'm around my friends, which I'm—that's when I'm at my best, it's when I feel _normal_..."

"Normal's overrated," Eliot says. "But that aside, I've seen you with your friends. You're relaxed. Engaging. Funny. Empathetic. Occasionally a little shit, which, honestly, is my favorite part." Eliot smiles when Quentin hiccups a laugh. "And I haven't seen a single thing that a reasonable person wouldn't _love._ "

"But what if she doesn't like what she sees in me when I'm around them?" Quentin stares at Eliot, miserable. "What if she sees me—the me I am when I _like_ being me—and doesn't like it?"

"Then she'll leave," Eliot says, and oh, those simple words feel like a knife in Quentin's chest. She'll leave. Of course she will. Of course she'll leave. People leave. His dad left irreversibly. His mother emotionally checked out on him _decades_ ago. People leave. People _always_ leave. "If she does, that's her choice. That's on _her._ Not you. You're delightful. And it's not your fault if it turns out that the two of you are incompatible."

"But?" Quentin prompts. When Eliot looks confused, he elaborates. "You have the exact same look on your face as when Julia can’t resist saying something even though she doesn’t really want to say it."

"I….dislike that that makes sense to me," Eliot says. He relaxes one of his arms around Quentin, but only to move his hand to cup Quentin's cheek, so Quentin can't look away. "The _but_ is… If you push Alice away again, if you _don't_ give her this opportunity to get to know you, the _real_ you, this supposed _best_ version of you, then she will leave. And it _will_ be your fault."

Quentin stares at Eliot. "I dislike that _that_ makes sense to me," he mumbles. "Are you sure that _saying the right thing_ is unusual for you?"

Eliot shrugs expansively, his grip loosening. "I've spent the last ten years being about as useful as a paperweight. It's nice to be helpful."

"I always thought ruling a kingdom would be a lot of work."

"Ours runs itself half the time. And with servants, there's even less to do. If I didn't cook Margo and I supper every night, I think _all_ I would do is stand around and look pretty. I'm very good at that, by the way."

"Cooking, or looking pretty?"

Eliot levels a look at him. "Both. Obviously." Eliot does pull away from Quentin then, but only to somehow wrangle his stupidly long legs so he's sitting cross legged. He leans in to Quentin eagerly, like this is a slumber party and they're swapping gossip.

It does feel a bit like a slumber party all of a sudden, even though Quentin's still in his jeans and work t-shirt. Teddy hadn't only borrowed the one suit from Penny yesterday—there were obviously sleep clothes in the pile too, because Eliot's wearing a pair of pajamas that must have belonged to Penny too, although they look brand new. As Quentin found out, against his own will from Kady and Julia, Penny generally sleeps in the nude.

Quentin's just glad Penny developed that habit _after_ they were roommates.

Quentin purses his lips and looks at Eliot contemplatively. He only ever had slumber parties with Julia when they were kids, and he doesn't think Eliot would be up for the stuff that he and Julia did: dancing, and drawing on furniture, and badly decorating cookies… "Wanna split a bottle of wine?"

Eliot's eyes light up. "I thought you'd _never_ ask."

Eliot insists that Quentin get into something more comfortable. It's nicer than he wants to admit to be able to slip into clean pajamas that he hasn't worn in months: a pair of well-worn sweatpants and a loose sleep shirt that had been a casualty of his backed-up laundry. Quentin's in such a hurry not to leave Eliot waiting that he doesn't even stop to replace the hair-tie that snaps as he quickly washes and changes. He shuffles out of the bathroom in bare feet, and Quentin thinks Eliot cleaned the carpet too (oh god) and the fibers feel good beneath his toes.

Eliot pats the couch-bed significantly. It looks like Eliot's already chosen the wine—not that Quentin has much of a selection, only four bottles, three of which he's pretty sure someone else gave to him. His own palate isn't especially discerning. Eliot is smoothly pouring two small glasses as Quentin shuffles over. Quentin quickly does a silence tut, so they can talk magic without fear of Teddy waking up and overhearing something he shouldn't.

Quentin sits on the couch comfortably, one knee drawn up to his chest, one leg dangling off the edge, and accepts the glass Eliot passes him. This is kinda nice. Quentin doesn't normally get this type of quiet, adult bonding with anyone. Alice probably wouldn't be into it—she says she doesn't like to drink on weekdays, only special occasions, because alcohol messes with her cognitive functions. In Quentin's opinion, that's a feature of alcohol, not a bug.

"So tell me," Eliot says. "What was the news?" Quentin's confusion must be obvious, because Eliot adds on, "The note. Penny."

"Basically, if tomorrow's plan doesn't work out, we have a back-up option," Quentin says, and quickly outlines what Penny told him.

Eliot nods appreciatively. "Thanks. None of you have to do _any_ of this, but I'm grateful."

"The bunnies have stopped cussing too, apparently. Would Margo come looking for you if she gets the portal open from her side?"

"She might. She'd have plenty of access to my hair to do a tracking spell. Even though this building's warded, I got enough of my blood on the sidewalk with the door incident—Julia only cleaned up _inside_ the shop."

Quentin worries the stem of the glass between his fingers for a moment. "So she might come and rescue you in the middle of the night."

Eliot looks stunned at that, like he hadn't thought about it himself. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess so."

It's probably Quentin's imagination, but Eliot looks disappointed. Or maybe Quentin's projecting. The idea of Eliot leaving is already making him feel unsteady. Waking up to find Eliot gone— Quentin doesn't like the thought. At all.

"Look. Um. If she does, could you at least… leave me a note?" Quentin looks down at his hands. "I—I know you have to go home. And that you're not leaving _me_ per se, but—I'm…"

"People leave," Eliot says. "That's what you're most scared of, and here I am, leaving tomorrow too."

"I don't—it's just—" Quentin struggles to find the right words.

Eliot leans forward to put a hand on Quentin's; Quentin looks up to see Eliot's pretty eyes scraping across Quentin's face, like Quentin is a page in Eliot's favorite book. "You have an understandable hang-up about people leaving. I'm glad you've let me know it's a thing for you, and I'm happy to accommodate you in any way I can. A note is a reasonable accommodation. It's what any good friend would do."

"Julia says that too," Quentin says, feeling light-headed at the simple idea that Eliot is his friend. He likes the sound of it.

"And she hasn't left you."

"No, that's very true." Quentin puts his glass down and nods tremulously at Eliot, who still has his hand on Quentin's, his thumb making small, unconscious reassuring arcs over Quentin's hand. James had wanted Julia to leave Quentin too. She'd refused. "I'm really lucky to have her."

"I think the same about my Margo," Eliot says. "All the goddamned time. Honestly, I never thought I deserved any kind of love." His handsome face creases ruefully. "Shitty parents, what can you do?"

Quentin's heart clenches in sympathy for Eliot's obvious pain on that topic. Quentin was lucky to have one loving parent. There isn't anything you can do about parents when you get a shitty one, but love them anyway and feel stupid for it.

"But Margo helps me believe that maybe one day I can earn love," Eliot continues. "If someone as perfect as her willingly gives up her time and attention and affections on someone like _me,_ there has to be something worthy in me, even if I can't see it."

"You do deserve love," Quentin says. "You've got such a stupidly big heart; I might not be the King of Fillory, more the King of Obliviousness half the time, but even I can see how kind and talented you are."

"Oh, please," Eliot breathes dismissively.

Quentin's chest hurts. Why can't Eliot see how special he is? Quentin moves his hand from under Eliot's, only so he can cup Eliot's cheek in his hand, thinking only about forcing Eliot's gaze to meet his. "You've been nothing but generous and kind since the moment I met you. You've been gentle to my son when anyone else would have been entirely ungracious. You've helped not just me, but Kady—that combo of spells was amazing."

"That was nothing, Margo taught me that combo when we were looking for a stolen shipment of Peach Schnapps—we have some very particular Fillorian bears in our court."

"That wasn't _nothing,_ " Quentin grits out, and Eliot’s eyes widen. "You deserve love, Eliot. You deserve _so much_."

"So do you," Eliot breathes. His voice hitches. "You know, I don't get it. I don't understand why _anyone_ would leave you if they had a choice, Quentin Coldwater."

Quentin can't breathe. He doesn't know how long they stay frozen that way, looking at each other. It could be a second. It could be an hour. He feels like a week might pass in this moment and he wouldn't know. Eliot's eyes are so beautiful up close, hazel with a ring of gold that Quentin bets sparkles in sunlight. Eliot's skin is so soft beneath Quentin's fingers, and his lips are even softer—the tip of Quentin's thumb catches the corner of Eliot's mouth when he moves to adjust his hand slightly, and Quentin doesn't know which of them made that sound, low and embarrassing. He thinks it might have been him.

"Um," Quentin says, trying to think up a lie that will explain why he made that noise, but his mind is racing for different reasons now.

Eliot looks just as dazed and he lifts a hand like he can't help himself, and instead of using his telekinesis, he uses his fingers to tuck some of Quentin's hair behind his right ear. Eliot's fingertips feel like sparks, like when Professor Sunderland was failing to find his Discipline back at Brakebills, only there's none of that _tang_ in the air that Quentin can feel when magic's being done.

"You should leave your hair like this more often," Eliot says, in a light whisper that makes Quentin feel like Eliot's not even sure he's speaking out loud.

Quentin shivers. It would be the easiest thing in the world to lean in right now, to press against Eliot's lips. Eliot's mouth is already slightly parted, enough for Quentin to easily bring their mouths together and find purchase; one of Eliot's large hands could curl around Quentin's neck; he'd know how to tug Quentin in at exactly the right angle to advance the kiss into the realm of fireworks.

Eliot would lean forward, press his weight into Quentin's, a solid and warm press of bodies against each other. Or maybe Eliot would lean back, coax Quentin to crawl up his long body, and Quentin could put his hands either side of Eliot's handsome face and kiss him slowly, torturously slow, the friction of their mouths colliding rousing a corresponding heat at their groins; Quentin could easily rut against him here, on the couch, if they kept it quiet, Eliot's only wearing thin pyjama pants, elasticated waist, easy to slip down, for skin against skin—

Quentin's so far into the fantasy he doesn't realize how close he's actually moved to Eliot. Eliot has gravitated in closer too, his eyes half-lidded, and they're both breathing quicker than they should be.

Quentin startles back and upright; his legs have fallen asleep, twisted up under him. "Um," Quentin says, unsteadily. "So. I. I'm going to go wash up and go to bed."

"Quentin," Eliot says, his voice rough, with an undercurrent of urgency.

"Leave me a note if you have to disappear," Quentin says, pushing out the words. This is wrong. It's the wine, and it's—Eliot’s so _kind_ , and Quentin's always so needy, that's all it would be, Quentin taking advantage of Eliot's kindness for a moment of comfort, and it's wrong. He's with Alice. He's supposed to be sensibly working out how to settle down with Alice, not fantasizing about someone who's going to leave Quentin soon anyway.

That thought settles through Quentin's spine like ice. Eliot's leaving. Quentin needs to adjust to that.

"I will," Eliot says, straightening his shoulders, his face going carefully blank. "Good night, Quentin."

"Good night, Eliot," Quentin forces out unsteadily, before he flees.

* * *

Quentin doesn't sleep well. He manages it in short bursts, waking up in a cloud of a half-remembered dream multiple times. When he wakes for the sixth time, he finally manages to stumble awake, and he hurries out of bed, struck by the thought that he should check on Teddy.

Quentin falters at the sight that meets him at the end of the hallway. Teddy's sitting at the table, actively _working on his homework,_ and Eliot's there, moving lightly around Quentin's kitchen, smiling to himself as he works on something. Quentin watches the scene with a feeling knotted up in his throat that he can't fully explain. Quentin feels so _settled_ , seeing it, somehow. Was his apartment always this bright in the morning?

Eliot catches sight of Quentin standing there and his smile widens. "Love the bedhead, Q," Eliot calls, and Quentin self-consciously lifts a hand up and can feel that his hair is sticking up like a tornado hit it. He tries to flatten it, but he can already tell it's a lost cause.

"Morning, dad," Teddy yells.

"Morning," Quentin manages, his throat thick. He hates that the sight of Eliot makes his chest relax. Eliot's going back to Fillory. Quentin has to stop entertaining that soft voice in the back of his brain that wants to ask Eliot to stay. Eliot deserves to go home, back to his own Julia, and to the magical kingdom that in different ways saved both Quentin and Eliot.

"Breakfast'll be five minutes," Eliot sing-songs.

Quentin turns to Teddy with a grin. "Four minutes."

"Two says you can do it in three," Teddy counters, immediately.

"Deal," Quentin yells, and runs for the bathroom. He cheats when the door closes because what his son can't see can't hurt him, surely? Three minutes doesn't give him time to argue with himself to get into the shower, and he really wants to win this bet. The cleaning tuts take a minute and make Quentin feel like he rolled himself in sand, but it's worth it—Quentin hurls new clothes on, shimmies into some clean underpants, jeans, and a fresh work shirt, and hurries out of the bathroom tying his hair up with seconds to spare. "Three minutes, _champion._ "

"Foul!" Teddy points with his pen. "No socks!"

"We're inside," Quentin argues. "I don't _need_ socks yet."

"We need a judge,” Teddy says, and looks over at Eliot. "He should have socks."

"I defend that as we are not headed outside or down to the shop for _several_ hours, I don't need socks," Quentin says.

Eliot looks between the two of them. "And what's at stake?"

"Two forehead kisses from the loser to the winner," Quentin says. "Obviously."

"Oh. _Obviously_." Eliot taps a finger against his lips for a few moments, thinking about it. "I don't think the bet was suitably defined before it was placed. The judge decrees the bet invalid, the penalty to be split. One each."

Teddy narrows his eyes at Eliot before sagging. "Fine," he sighs, and then giggles as Quentin sweeps in and noisily kisses a squirming Teddy on the forehead. Quentin beams as Teddy darts up and kisses his forehead in return, sharing a goofy smile with his dad; sadly Teddy is aware of Quentin's usual tricks, and ducks out of the way again when Quentin tries to ruffle his hair.

"Most people bet with money, y'know," Eliot says.

Quentin arches an eyebrow. "Where's the fun in that?"

"I'm nine," Teddy adds. " _What_ money?"

"Fair point, judge accepts both arguments. _If_ the plaintiff and the defendant scooch their butts to the breakfast bar so the judge can show off his _eminent_ flipping skills," Eliot waggles a spatula at them both.

"Your Honor, we accept," Quentin says, sweeping into an awkward bow.

Eliot does make Teddy his promised New York-shaped pancake. "My mom used to make them in the shape of all the states," Eliot explains, as he carefully drops batter with a ladle, elegantly making the jagged coastlines. It makes Quentin think of all the projects he and Julia completed together at school; whenever there was a map involved, Julia made Quentin draw it, claiming she could do it, _of course,_ but she couldn't be bothered with all the fiddly coastlines.

"What was your favorite state to eat?" Teddy asks.

Eliot considers it. "Alaska."

"Because it's the biggest?" Quentin asks, wryly.

"Bingo," Eliot sings. He's clearly happy to be in the kitchen, which wipes out any guilt Quentin might be feeling about making their guest do the cooking. Eliot's smiling, and his shoulders are loose, relaxed; his hips shimmy as he darts between the burners and the breakfast bar with his cleverly intricate pancakes.

Quentin smiles to himself as Eliot takes obvious sadistic pleasure in slicing apart a pancakey version of what was _supposed_ to be Indiana until Teddy made him laugh when he was pouring the batter. Maybe Eliot doesn't _have_ to hurry back to Fillory? If Margo's able to fully open the path, maybe Penny can go back with her, and then Eliot could return any time—Penny can always go back and forth to places he's been before, and while he doesn't like to be used as a taxi, Quentin can owe him a couple of favors. Quentin can cover some book store shifts, give Julia, Kady, and Penny a couple of date nights…

Would it really hurt to ask? What's the worst that could happen? Eliot could say no, and how's that any different from Quentin not asking, and Eliot leaving anyway?

"Eliot," Quentin starts, smiling automatically when Eliot immediately looks at him. "D—?"

That's as far as he gets, when he hears loud knocking at the door.

Quentin and Teddy exchange a matching, confused glance. No one ever knocks at their door. Julia, Penny, and Kady show themselves in whenever they come down. Maybe it's Alice, ten hours early for dinner?

"Maybe it's Josh," Quentin decides. That wouldn't be too bad, although he thinks Josh might get a bit jealous at _how_ light and fluffy Eliot's pancakes are.

Quentin slides off his stool and rubs his hands on his jeans, which earns him an exasperated look from Eliot; Quentin grins ruefully at him and heads for the door, opening it up, expecting to see Josh or Alice, or maybe Julia with her hands full of books.

He's not expecting the actual sight: a stranger, a woman wearing tight leather pants, long mousy hair intricately braided away from her face, and a criss-cross of belts stuffed with wicked-looking knives worn over a leather doublet.

Quentin doesn't even care that Teddy is right there—no secret is worth his son's safety—and his hands are up and ready to cast something. His fingers crook into the opening position of a strong shield spell, but then Julia comes up behind the woman, panting, and Eliot throws himself out of his stool in the least graceful motion Quentin had seen from the man since meeting him.

"Fen," Eliot yells, beaming widely.

The stranger—Fen?—launches herself past Quentin to throw herself into Eliot's arms. She's beaming up at him adorably and—is she patting Eliot's arms appreciatively at the same time?

Quentin stares in confusion.

"She ran past me when I said you were upstairs," Julia says, looking apologetic and confused at once.

"This is Fen. She works for Margo," Eliot says, gesturing at the woman; he seems to be carefully trying to dislodge her. Fen seems oblivious to his efforts.

"I do," Fen says, and she turns to Eliot. "I've been searching for you for hours, your highness."

Quentin stares in mortification. Teddy mouths the words _your highness._

"It's a joke nickname," Eliot says loudly, bless him.

"Oh, that's why you were wearing a crown when we met," Teddy says, nodding. "As a joke."

"Exactly," Eliot says, grinning too-widely. He turns to Fen. "Where's Margo, Fen? Is she here?"

"In a manner of speaking," Fen says, wincing.

Eliot folds his arms over his chest. "Explain," he says, in a low voice. There's a clear note of warning in it. Quentin probably shouldn't find that attractive.

Fen bites her lower lip and looks up at Eliot. "We finally got the portal open at moonrise last night, but when we came through—these two men started throwing things at us. The High King sacrificed herself to get me to safety."

"Sacrificed herself?" Eliot's face turns into a thundercloud.

"Oh! I mean. She's not dead. Or hurt. She let them catch her so _I_ could get free to find you," Fen says. "She said—oh, what was the phrase?" Fen frowns.

"Fen," Eliot says low, in warning.

"Oh that's right!" Fen beams brightly at Eliot. "She said she was being arrested!"


	9. Eliot

Not even back in Eliot's wildest days had he gone so far as to get Margo arrested, and he had done some _shit._

Eliot paces, even though he shouldn't; he can tell he's making everyone nervous, taking up so much space, moving so continuously. He knows he should stop, but he can't help it. Margo came to save him and now she's in trouble. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Someone puts their hand on his elbow—to stop him? Eliot pauses, and looks down to see Julia looking up at him with a soft, supportive expression. To soothe him, then.

"Don't worry, we've got this," Julia says, her voice gentle. "You've met Kady, it's not even our only planned heist for the week."

Eliot snorts as Julia grins impishly at him. Her words have soothed his nerves and his urge to move lessens.

"Got her location," Kady says, peering at the map she has rolled out on the dining table. Margo had the wherewithal to give Fen some of her hair during the apparent scuffle in the clock owner's apartment. "She's at the 19th."

"On it," Penny says, disappearing and reappearing with a laptop. He perches on the edge of the table and flips it open, typing rapidly.

Quentin hurries into the room, looking wide-eyed. "Teddy's set up with Josh downstairs. We're good for a couple of hours, he thinks. What are we up to?"

"Our target's in the 19th, Penny's checking now," Kady nods at Penny's frantic typing.

"I'm in," Penny says. "I can wipe her out of the system from here, but I'm gonna need line-of-sight to get her out. And some time to get the physical paperwork out of the filing room."

"I can cause a distraction or three," Kady grins.

"Me too," Eliot says, grimly.

"Not you," Penny says. Eliot frowns, but Penny shrugs. "Someone's moving fast on this. There's a sketch of you in the file already, _and_ of Miss. Stabby McStabberson over there."

Fen notices Penny looking in her direction and whirls around, looking confused when there's no one behind her. "I don't who this McStabberson is, but I like the sound of her already," she says.

Quentin throws an amused look at Eliot, who manages to barely suppress his own smile.

"Bailey's on duty," Kady reads over Penny's shoulder. "Q, you're on the mission."

Quentin pulls a face like he can smell manure. "Ugh, I guess. Fine."

"Jennifer Bailey," Julia murmurs at Eliot's side. "Receptionist with a thing for Q."

Eliot can't blame her.

"Before you get too cheerful, Richard is on the main desk too," Kady singsongs.

Julia makes a growling noise and folds her arms while Quentin smirks at her. "Fine, I'm in too."

"I’m sure I can still help," Fen says, pulling out a knife and twirling it dramatically. "Who needs stabbing?"

"Oh lord," Julia breathes.

"We were supposed to be doing food prep this morning, there are plenty of things that need chopping for that," Kady points out. She glances at Quentin sourly. "If we're going to impress Miss. Fancy-Pants Brainbox tonight, there's a lot of stuff to get ready."

"Oh," Quentin says, "we don't have to—I mean, Alice will be fine with takeout—"

"We did not spend two hours with Josh last night making a prep list to _get takeout,_ " Julia stalks up to Quentin and wags a finger at him. "It's three pages long. We're gonna wine and dine your girlfriend and we're going to impress the fancy-pants right _off_ her for you, okay?"

"Uh, well, I'd rather you didn't charm her pants off," Quentin says. "You stole my date once already, and that's enough—"

Eliot tilts his head, wanting to know more about _that_ story, but that can wait. He needs to focus on Margo, in jail... She sadly knows better than to blow up a muggle police station, Eliot thinks. They both still have living blood relations on Earth, and the Magicians Court would take revenge on them _and_ their families, if Margo was too open with magic.

As much as Margo still has daddy issues, and full-on hatred for Eliot's somehow-still-alive father, she wouldn't risk that. But if Quentin and his friends can get Margo out of there safely the way they've said they can, Eliot doesn't have too much cause to panic. He trusts them. Maybe it's the Brakebills connection. Or the fact that they're capable enough to have survived the institution that nearly destroyed him.

"James had only gone out with you two times before I ‘stole' him," Julia rolls her eyes. "And you don't _want_ a partner who _can_ be stolen from you with a butt grab and a fancy cocktail. You deserve better than that."

"God, James was so easy," Quentin sighs, bumping Julia's hip with hers; she grins at him.

"Okay, Fen and I are gonna chop, but there's still baking to do," Kady sighs.

"I can cook," Eliot says, holding a hand up. "If there's a list to follow, I can work on it while you rescue my best friend. It's the least I can do."

"Oh, yeah, he can totally cook," Quentin says, nodding eagerly. "Eliot somehow managed to make an amazing breakfast out of leftovers in my kitchen?"

Penny looks genuinely impressed at that, and Eliot tries not to preen.

"King Eliot's a _great_ chef," Fen enthuses from the corner.

Eliot eyes her speculatively. "How would you know?"

"High King Margo saves her leftovers for me," Fen rolls her eyes. " _Obviously._ "

" _Does_ she now?" Eliot says, frowning and thinking for a brief second about whether it might be okay to leave Margo to chill in jail for a while. But then he thinks about police in general and shudders. Nope, yeah, Margo needs to be rescued from those bastards, stat. Thankfully she can hold her own, if any of them come after her individually. Eliot almost hopes one of them _tries._

"Last time we had to bust someone out and do a full wipe, it took about three hours," Julia says, picking up a notepad from the kitchen counter and handing it over to Eliot. "If you do what you can handle on this list—or maybe you can swap over with Josh at some point, and help in the bookstore if you'd rather? He can show you how to operate our cash register."

Eliot nearly tears up at the trust implicit in this offer. He knows how much the shop means to Julia.

"This is all in my wheelhouse, don't worry," Eliot reads over it swiftly. It's very detailed and precise, with several recipes written out in a round, printed hand. "Did Josh write this?"

Julia blinks. "How did you know?"

"Someone told me your writing was incomprehensible," Eliot murmurs, checking down the list.

Quentin yelps as he dodges Julia’s sharp elbow.

There's a flurry of other planning: Julia charming some crystals for some distraction spells to take with them; Penny doing a few other things on the laptop; Kady confiscating Fen's knife belt and showing her Josh's range of vegetable knives. And most surprisingly, Quentin brings him a surprise guest before they go: Teddy.

"I hope you don't mind," Quentin says. "When I told him we were headed out for one of Penny and Kady's clients, he wanted to come help bake with you. Uh. Make sure you're watching him with a knife. If that's okay?"

"Of _course_ it is _,"_ Eliot glances down at Teddy, who's smiling sheepishly. "Every good chef needs a sous chef."

"Who's Sue?" Teddy asks.

Quentin kneels down and takes Teddy's hands. "Aunt Kady knows the rules, so no scamming her into unlocking the Playstation.”

" _Awwww_ ," Teddy whines, but he winks at his dad. "I'll be good. _Mostly._ "

"I can leave him downstairs with Josh," Quentin says to Eliot.

"I think we'll be okay," Eliot says. He nods over at Kady and Fen. "I bet Teddy and I can finish our items on the list before _they_ can."

"Oh, it's _on,_ " Kady yells from across the room.

"Three says my baby wins," Julia says.

"Three says _my_ baby wins," Quentin immediately counters.

"Three says I win!" Fen spins a y-shaped peeler. She pauses. "What are we betting? Knives, right? Or animals. But I only brought one animal friend with me. So if it's animals, I bet one." She yanks what looks like a ferret...wearing a ruff…. out of her tunic? Eliot tries not to facepalm. She brought Merry the ferret with her? Eliot tilts his head as he contemplates Fen's tight clothing—where the hell could she have even _fit_ a ferret in that get-up? He probably doesn't want the answer.

Quentin and Teddy are distracted by the sight, enough that Eliot can catch Julia's attention, and he manages to do a quick series of gestures—he points at the rabbits, then the ferret, then his own throat, and Julia's eyes-widen and she quickly hurries over to temporarily _borrow_ the ferret, disappearing off into the spare room, and coming back out with an exceptionally grumpy—and now magically silenced—Merry.

Thankfully, Teddy hadn't noticed any of that: Quentin was too busy parenting Teddy, straightening his clothes and wiping some rogue pancake syrup from his cheek. Julia then steals Teddy for some fussing of her own, mostly re-doing his hair with a comb in her pocket.

Quentin uses that opportunity to sidle closer to Eliot, who's distracted reading the extremely detailed to-do list. Eliot doubts he and Teddy _can_ beat Fen and Kady, because they both look scarily competent with knives, but at least they'll have fun trying.

"We'll call you on the landline if we're going to be longer than three hours," Quentin promises.

"I appreciate that," Eliot says.

Quentin looks uncertain for a moment, then he puts a reassuring hand on Eliot's elbow. "We will get your friend out."

Eliot smiles, trying not to let his fear shine through too much. "I know. Thank you."

He watches fondly as Quentin presses a kiss to Teddy's hair and then hurries to join Penny and Julia by the door, making sure they have everything they need. Kady watches them, clearly wanting to be on that mission and not stuck on vegetable duty, while Fen, at her side, stares lovingly at Eliot instead. Merry the ferret seems to have accepted his sorry fate of being silenced and is curled up on Fen's shoulder, asleep.

"Come on, daydreamer," Kady says, prodding Fen. "Get to work."

"Ooh," Fen says. "Forceful. I like it."

"Don't worry, we've got this," Julia says with a nod, and then the three of them clatter out of the room.

Eliot stares off in their direction for a long moment, worrying, and then he has to bundle up his anxiety over Margo. He's glad for the long list of tasks as a distraction.

Fen and Kady seem to be bonding over how fast they can chop things. Eliot watches them for a second, and then heads over to the main counter with the list. Teddy ambles up alongside him and hauls himself up onto one of the spinning chairs.

“Ummm, thanks for letting me cook with you,” Teddy says.

Eliot smiles at him. “It’s my pleasure. You sure you wouldn’t rather sit and read books downstairs?”

Teddy wrinkles his nose. “I spend hours down there. It’s boring.”

“What do you normally do when your dad’s not around?”

“Fortnite,” Teddy says promptly, which doesn’t make much sense to Eliot. He recognizes the name from Teddy’s pillow last night, so at least Eliot knows Teddy’s not talking about the length of time. “Or I explore the building. Everywhere but the basement where I’m _not allowed._ ” Teddy sounds very sulky about that.

Eliot thinks about the explosions Quentin had mentioned happening downstairs, and he can understand why it’s off-limits to a nine-year-old.

"I like the bookstore,” Eliot says. “But I bet it sucks having to be quiet when customers are in."

"Yeah. Aunt Julia plays music and dances with me when no one's there," Teddy says, his eyes brightening. "She's a good dancer."

"Your dad says he's better."

Teddy laughs noisily. "He thinks so."

"I wish I could see for myself," Eliot says.

"You could ask, when he gets back."

"Ah," Eliot says, "I have to go home, I'm afraid."

Teddy looks crestfallen. "You're not staying for dinner? But dad said it's a big one, with Alice."

"I have my own family to get back to," Eliot says.

"Oh," Teddy says, after a moment. "But why are you cooking it if you're not going to get to eat any of it?"

Eliot wonders whether this is what having kids is like—questions upon questions. It probably is. He's never really understood why people even go through all the effort of it, but seeing the way Quentin and Teddy are around each other, how much they love each other, is almost enough to change his mind on parenthood in one fell swoop. Alas, even if Eliot opens his mind and heart to the prospect of having his own kid, there's no guarantee he'd get one even _half_ as awesome and kind and inquisitive as Teddy Coldwater. It's not like you can order a kid from a catalog with all the characteristics you'd desire.

"Because your dad and Aunt Julia and Uncle Penny are doing me a favor," Eliot says. "So I'm doing them one in return."

"Oh," Teddy says. "The barter system. We learned about that in school last week, what people did before they invented money."

Eliot thinks about going deeper into it. This situation is not exactly a barter system, because he’s pretty sure Julia, Quentin, Kady, and Penny would have helped rescue Margo even if he'd done absolutely nothing in return. Instead, he shrugs, letting it go.

"Okay first, I have to assemble the ingredients we need," Eliot says, scanning over Josh's notes.

"I can help," Teddy says, but his gaze drops longingly over to the messenger bunnies and Eliot smothers a knowing grin.

"How about you go play with the rabbits and I'll yell for you when it's time to wash your hands and help," Eliot says, and Teddy grins and runs.

"Aunt Kady, when did you get them?" Teddy yelps, scrambling over to the rabbit run and staring down at them in fascination. "Do you think dad would let me get a pet? He said he had a hamster when he was little. And Aunt Julia had a _tarantula_."

"You should ask for a ferret," Fen says.

"What sort of pet would you want?" Eliot calls over. He eyes the rabbits warily. What should he do if they start talking again? He should have gotten Julia to put the same silencing spell on them as she did the ferret. Maybe she already has?

"My friend Ellie has a cat with one eye called Bluebeard," Teddy says.

Eliot grins. "What's the other eye called?"

Teddy scrunches up his face and then bursts out laughing like it's the funniest thing he's ever heard.

"It's not that funny," Kady mumbles, but she's smirking, which completely destroys the effect.

Eliot takes time to lay out all the ingredients he's going to need. Josh wants some fresh bread rolls, so that dough needs time to rise, and some shortcrust pastry which will need to rest for a while, and cupcakes are at the bottom of the list, but that will be the easiest for Teddy to help with, so while he calls Teddy over to wash his hands, Eliot quickly measures out the butter and sugar into a glass bowl, and puts a wooden spoon next to it.

"Your karate," Eliot says, contemplatively, as Teddy trots up to join him with an expectant expression on his face. "Has that given you strong muscles?"

"Yeah!" Teddy grins and puffs his chest up proudly. "It's made me good at gym too. I can nearly run as fast as Felicity Cho and her dad says she's part _jaguar_."

"Think you're up to stirring this for me?" Eliot holds out a wooden spoon and the bowl full of butter and sugar. "It definitely needs someone with muscles and stamina to cream these together."

"I suppose," Teddy says, imperiously holding his hand out for the spoon.

There's a companionable silence as Teddy concentrates on stirring, wobbling the bowl until he figures out by himself he needs to hold it still with one hand and stir with the other. He starts stirring rapidly but soon slows down, flagging from the effort but trying to appear strong, like it's not beating him.

"Dad and Alice are gonna get married, I think," Teddy whispers, looking over in Kady and Fen's direction. He looks calmer when he realizes the two of them can't hear him—Kady's put the radio on, and Fen's looking tearful as some radio advice host bleats noisily about one-sided crushes.

"Is that what your dad said?" Eliot keeps his voice at a whisper too.

"No. He said that we would be spending more time together," Teddy sighs. "But when I said I wasn't ready for a stepmom, he didn't tell me I was wrong. Which is dad for _yes._ ”

Eliot frowns at that—Quentin described their relationship as more of a business transaction than a romance, but stepmom and _married_ have definite love connotations. Maybe even True Love. Eliot still feels the urge to pooh-pooh the very idea every time it rears its weird head, but...Margo's right. Once upon a time he _did_ believe in True Love. He wouldn't be feeling so wretched now about the idea of Quentin getting married _without_ it, if he didn't still somewhat believe in it. Quentin deserves love. He deserves romance. Eliot believes that if it exists, Margo deserves it, and dammit, Quentin deserves it too.

Eliot swallows all those thoughts back. They're definitely not appropriate conversational topics for Quentin's son. He reframes the statement in his head to make it easier to take, because if Alice and Quentin want to have a practical relationship, they'll probably get hitched in a registry office. Less marriage, more...official partnership.

"How do you feel about the idea of having a new mom?" Eliot asks.

Teddy's mouth turns down at the edges. He's still stubbornly stirring, bless him. "You mean stepmom."

"I suppose so."

"We get these fairytale stories read to us at school. And whenever there’s a stepmom, they’re _always_ bad." Teddy puffs out his cheeks in the exact same way Eliot's seen Quentin do when frustrated.

"I can tell you one thing," Eliot says, wagging a finger at Teddy. "Fairy tales are _bunk._ Real life is much more complicated. Sometimes you get a parent and they're absolutely the best thing for you and they love you and they treat you well."

"Like my dad," Teddy says brightly.

"Mmhmm. And other times you get a parent who wants to love you, and through no fault of their own, they can't."

"Like mom," Teddy sighs.

Eliot's face creases. "And then you get people like my parents who never should have been parents and were terrible at it."

Teddy's mouth falls open and he shuts it again. “Oh,” he says, after a moment.

"There are all kinds of people in the world," Eliot shrugs. "Good. Bad. Indifferent. _But,_ you know what the best kind of people are?"

Teddy pauses from his stirring. "What?"

"The ones that _choose_ to be in your life," Eliot says, nodding. "The people who don't need to be, they _want_ to be. And sometimes, like your dad, they get to be both, and that's cool. But other times, like your Aunt Julia—she _wants_ to be in your life. She doesn't have to be. She chooses to love you. On purpose. And there's something wonderful about that."

"Yeah, I guess."

"Alice isn't part of your family yet. But she's open to the possibility. And if she does want to be, it means she's looked at you and your dad, and she's _picked_ you to be in her life. She doesn't have to. She wants to." Eliot shrugs. "I think that's pretty nifty."

Teddy frowns. "I guess I didn't think of it like that."

Eliot smiles sadly. It took him a while to learn that lesson. Margo taught it to him pretty well. He's glad to get to impart his hard-won knowledge to someone else.

"Um," Teddy says, in an even quieter whisper. "You know how adults aren't supposed to share secrets with kids unless it's for a birthday or a Christmas surprise present?"

"Uh," Eliot says, "y—yes. That old rule. Yes. It's a very good rule."

"What about the other way around?" Teddy puts the wooden spoon down across the bowl, checks to see if Kady is looking, and—seeming satisfied that she's too distracted by Fen waving a knife at the radio to listen to them—Teddy sidles a step closer to Eliot. "What if I have a secret I wanted to ask a grown up about?"

"Talking to a responsible adult is always a good idea," Eliot says, his entire brain lighting up with exclamation marks because holy shit he is not prepared for a super serious, potentially worrying conversation with a kid. "Um. I think… an adult like a teacher, for example, they have a responsibility if you come to them with a dangerous secret to do something about it. Especially if someone's hurting you, or someone else—"

"It’s not a secret like that," Teddy says, rapidly shaking his head.

Eliot frowns, immensely worried that Teddy's going to tell Eliot something horrible, and Eliot will have to be the one to break it to Quentin. If someone _has_ been hurting Teddy somehow, Eliot might even join in with whatever Quentin wants to do in revenge. Margo would definitely be all right with a short delay returning to Fillory if she got to help slice someone's testicles off. "Okay. I can't promise I can help, but I can promise to try. What is it?"

"Well. Yesterday, I peeked in when I wasn't supposed to and saw you floating a sock in our apartment," Teddy says, and Eliot's stomach drops. What. Fuck. _Shit._ Quentin's going to kill him.

“I _threw_ a sock,” Eliot starts.

“You floated it,” Teddy repeats, folding his arms and glaring at him. “I saw it. I pretended I didn’t. I’ve been pretending for years.”

Eliot stares at Teddy, confused. “Pretending what?”

Teddy rolls his eyes in a very Kady-like manner. “That I don’t know magic is real.” He stares at Eliot. “I know it is. _That’s_ not the problem.”

Eliot mimics Teddy and folds his arms. “What makes you think magic is real?”

“Dad used to do magic when I was little. Sometimes we play cards and they vanish.”

“Your dad practices sleight of hand.”

Teddy raises both eyebrows. “Sometimes sound goes weird around here. The hallways make noises some days, some days they don’t.” Teddy unfolds his arms, pushes the bowl away and puts his hands flat on the counter, staring up at Eliot seriously. “ _And_ I've seen Uncle Penny literally disappear when he thinks no one is looking."

Welp, Eliot thinks. At least Uncle Penny will be getting busted too.

"And one of those rabbits asked me to get him a carrot," Teddy points over at the offending messenger bunny, and Eliot turns to look. He's never seen a rabbit look guilty before, but the one on the left manages it.

"Oh," Eliot says, stupidly.

“I _said_ I explored this building. There are crawlspaces everywhere. So I hear things all the time. I heard Aunt Julia say that mom was jealous that they all had magic and she didn't."

Eliot's heart hurts at the dismay on Teddy's face and he gives up on denying that magic is real in favor of trying to say something to soothe the pain in Teddy’s voice. "People are complicated," Eliot says. "I know your mom loved you."

"People's brains break sometimes," Teddy says, automatically. He sounds a lot like his father in that moment. "And it's not my fault when it does."

"Yes," Eliot says. He’s discombobulated. He should be giving Teddy advice, but right now it feels like the other way around.

“I want him to use magic around me,” Teddy sighs. “I won’t get jealous like mom. I think it’s cool. I bet Dad can do some awesome stuff. I’ve known for years, I haven’t told anyone! I feel kinda cool knowing stuff none of my friends might ever get to know."

"That _is_ a fun part of magic," Eliot allows. Teddy's eyes brighten, and Eliot realizes that he’s confirmed everything, albeit tacitly. "But you've never said anything to anyone else about magic. Even though you've known it's real for years?"

Teddy shrugs. "Any time anyone says the word magic around me, dad looks so sad."

Oh. Well. Yes. Eliot can imagine Quentin's sad expression being a major deterrent. "But you wanted my advice," Eliot says, his mind racing.

"Yeah," Teddy says. "Even if I have nothing to barter for it but my epic stirring abilities." Teddy stirs the butter and sugar illustratively fast for a few rotations. "Would you tell Dad for me? That I know. I don’t wanna see his face when he knows I know."

Eliot almost wants to cry. Teddy's a _kid_. There's no way when Eliot was his age he'd have been this sensitive or thoughtful. Teddy Coldwater is special, in so many ways.

"Why now?" Eliot presses. "Why not sit on the secret a little bit longer?"

"I'm old enough now to know stuff," Teddy says, indignantly. "Besides—I have a problem."

Eliot tenses. A problem. He has to break the news to Quentin that his son knows about magic, _and_ let Quentin know Teddy has a problem? Shit.

"What problem?" Eliot asks, because it's always better to rip the band-aid off fast.

"I can't always control this," Teddy says, and holds up his hands, and promptly sets the counter on fire.

* * *

The thing about fire is it's pretty hard to hide.

Especially when Teddy's still holding a flame up in both hands.

And especially when the counter itself really catches on fire, which...makes sense when magic fire is involved, Eliot supposes.

"What the hell?" Kady yells, as Eliot uses his telekinesis to at least swipe the list and the recipe ingredients safely to one side.

"Surprise?" Teddy says, holding his flaming hands up.

"Shit," Kady says, and then panics. "Don't tell your dad I said shit."

"Dad says worse," Teddy says. And stares at his hands. "How _do_ I put this out?"

Thankfully Eliot's fire-dousing skills are extensive. He runs quickly through some tuts that put the main fire out, but the counter remains impressively scorched. Thankfully there are a few spells that can reverse the damage and cosmetically cover up the marks, but… that's a lot of work. And there's something a lot more urgent to deal with: the fact that Quentin Coldwater's kid is a pyromancer.

And an early developer, at that. With a magical father, and a mother from a magical family, it's not an unexpected development, that Teddy would be magical too, but he is a bit younger than usual.

Kady manages to get Teddy to calm down and turn his fire off, running him through some meditation and focusing techniques. She's crude but effective, and Teddy is unharmed. Kady and Eliot exchange a look and sit Teddy down on one of the spinning chairs; they both stand in front of him with their arms crossed, presenting a united front without even having to talk about it.

"Talk, young man," Kady says.

Teddy grimaces. "Koala's fingerprints get mistaken for human ones sometimes?"

Kady's patience limit seems to be at the level of basically non-existent; her eyes flash with a passionate emotion.

"She means about the fire. Where and when did it start? Has anyone else seen?" Eliot crouches down so he's at Teddy's eye level. "There are serious laws, Teddy. The Magicians Court can take you away from your dad if you're seen doing magic in public. It's dangerous. You've done the right thing telling me and your Aunt Kady about it. So let us know what we need to know, to keep you safe, okay?"

Teddy's eyes widen. "I knew it had to be secret. I didn't know they could take me away from dad."

"We can stop that from happening," Kady says, nodding. "Just tell us."

Teddy admits that it happened at school but no one knows it was him that set the trash can alight, and he talks through a few other occasions where it's happened, with no one around.

"I don’t want to burn down the bookstore," Teddy sighs in conclusion, and Eliot's heart hurts for him.

Eliot could probably talk Teddy through a few meditations that will help him focus on where in his thoughts the fire impulse lives. Eliot had to go through that as a teenager—find where his murderous telekinetic impulse existed, so he could box it up. Eliot always pictures his mental boxes as made out of something flimsy, something breakable, because a strong cage lets the pressure build up too high. The resulting explosion would be worse than no box at all. Teddy will need to learn how to control it. The sooner the better, too. Eliot's halfway through thinking up a schedule on how he'd do it before he remembers—he'll be going home soon. This isn't his responsibility.

"FYI, _you're_ telling Q," Kady snaps at Eliot. "This happened on your watch."

Eliot wants to protest, but he sags instead. "I suppose it's better coming from me. He doesn't have to look me in the eyes ever again after today."

Teddy pulls a face. "You're really _leaving_ leaving? Never coming back, leaving?"

Kady graces him with an expression which clearly says _good luck with that one._

"You have all these people in your life that have chosen to be in it," Eliot says, slowly. "Your Aunt Julia, Aunt Kady, Uncle Penny, now Alice… I only have one."

Teddy furrows his eyebrows. "Huh?"

"And me, he has me," Fen yells. "Although the little voice in the electric box says I need to stop pining after emotionally unavailable men!"

Eliot flattens his mouth into a line. Fen is an acquired taste, really. And yet somehow, he's surprised to find he's acquired it. "I only have Margo in my life. She's my family. I picked her, and she picked me. And as much as I've enjoyed having the honor to get to know you all, at the end of the day, I love my family, as small as it is. And I can't even comprehend the idea of not getting to see her every day."

"Oh," Teddy says, in a small voice. "Oh, I guess I get it. I just thought about not seeing my dad every day and it made my heart hurt."

For the briefest second, Eliot thinks about the same thing. He's had two mornings in a row now of seeing Quentin. When he thinks about waking up in Fillory tomorrow, away from Quentin, his heart hurts too.

"You okay?" Kady's voice startles Eliot out of his sudden melancholy. "Because you look like you're gonna be sick and I don't want to have to clean that up."

Eliot arches an eyebrow at her and then claps his hands. "It's gonna be an awkward conversation when your dad gets home, but until then—I think we have a bet to figure out. We're about to mess up Quentin's worldview, I'll be damned if I mess up the fancy dinner for his sweetheart, too."

It burns in a way Eliot doesn't want to examine, saying _sweetheart._ He swallows that feeling back.

"Let's get back to work," Kady sighs. "Stuck doing housework while my partners have all the fun. Sucks to be me right now."

"Your partners are breaking someone out of jail," Eliot says. "That's what you consider fun?"

Kady looks at him like he'd asked her if water was wet. "Duh."

Eliot raises his eyebrows, but she strides off with an eye-roll back to where Fen is steadily accumulating a daunting pile of peeled potatoes.

"We'd best get stirring," Eliot says to Teddy. Teddy nods and follows him back to the end of the counter where Eliot had shoved all the ingredients and equipment to save them from Teddy's exciting and unexpected bout of pyromancy.

"I guess you can't magically make cake, huh?" Teddy asks, extracting his cake bowl from the pile and wincing guiltily at the scorch mark on the counter.

Eliot grins at him. "If you could, I'd be _made_ out of cake by now."

"That would be messed up," Teddy wrinkles his nose, "what if you got wet?"

"You know what," Eliot says, slowly, "that’s one of the weirdest things I’ve ever been asked, and I've been asked a lot of weird things in my life. I think the weirdest one was a guy who asked me if life was in black-and-white a hundred years ago."

Teddy considers that as he starts to stir the butter and sugar again, even though it’s probably time to add the eggs. "What's the _second_ weirdest thing you've ever been asked?"

The real answer involves nipple clamps and peanut butter, but Teddy is entirely the wrong audience for that. Eliot frantically searches for a G-rated answer. "Someone asked if I'd ever contemplated how long it would take for a giraffe to vomit?" Oh. Is vomit G-rated? Too late now.

Teddy snickers, so vomit references, at least, are still classically funny to children—some things never change. "What did you answer?"

"There's an island of carnivore giraffes a few days' sail eastwards from where I live, so I sent a team to go find out," Eliot says.

"Carnivore?”

“That means they eat meat."

"Oh. Did they find out?" Teddy asks, like it's perfectly acceptable for Eliot to know the location of an island of meat-eating giraffes.

"I don't know," Eliot says, shrugging. "They never came back."

Teddy looks impressed by that answer. "I’ve been really into dragons. But maybe I picked the wrong animal?"

Eliot almost regrets that he'll be safely back in Fillory soon, thus missing Quentin’s reaction to Teddy’s sudden and mysterious giraffe obsession. He can't imagine what would be funnier: the first _what is going on_ moment when Teddy announces his new interest, or the second expression when Teddy tells Q where the interest began.

Either way, if there’s a silver lining about leaving so soon, it’s that he’ll be out of range of retribution.

* * *

Powering through the prep list with Teddy puts all of his worries out of his mind. He can't do anything about Margo, or about Quentin's upcoming reaction to his son's secret, but he can set out the bread rolls to cool on trays, wrap up the pastry for Josh to make into quiches and pies, and help set up a decorating station for Teddy's cupcakes, which are almost done cooling.

Even better, Kady and Fen are still furiously dicing cabbage for coleslaw (which, why would that be on a breakfast-food themed dinner spread? Since it scores him and Teddy the win, Eliot's not mad about it) when the doors open and the conquering heroes return.

Eliot registers Margo as a blur before she throws herself up and at him, wrapping her legs around his hips and grabbing him in a massive bear hug. She smells like coffee and frustration and coconut oil, which is probably because half of her hair is in Eliot's face right now, but he doesn't care about that, because it's _Margo_ and this is the longest he's been away from her for fifteen years.

"You freaked me out, you fucker," Margo whispers, and Eliot clings onto her for a long moment.

"I missed you too, my love," Eliot says, looking at her adoringly. She's looking absolutely bad-ass in a leather pant and bustier combo; it's a very good look on her, but then again, what _isn't_?

Margo reluctantly lowers herself back to the ground and thumps his shoulder. "You better have. You freaked us _all_ out."

"I'm sorry, I missed the part where I got drop kicked out of Fillory _on purpose,_ " Eliot snits, rolling his eyes. "Did you find the woman who tricked me through the portal in the first place?"

Margo frowns. "Woman? No. I tracked you to the tree, followed your magical signature, found it cut off there. The curse blocking that portal was nasty magic; Gillen's leading an investigation to find out who might be capable of it."

Eliot nods. "I can give him a description when I get back, but it could have been a disguise, I suppose. If they can use portal magic, a glamor is child's play."

"Might not be a disguise, though. You never know. Good job on the cavalry, by the way," Margo says, nodding in Julia's direction. "They got me out _and_ wiped the records. Better than the exit plan I was working on. I guess Brakebills wasn't _entirely_ useless, after all."

Eliot frowns. "What was your exit plan for if I'd found you?"

"Well, I made a fuss and got myself put in a room on my own. I was gonna wait until it got dark and blow a hole the wall," Margo shrugs. "Less witnesses."

Eliot hums under his breath. That would have got the job done, he supposes. "The guy said something about men with spears breaking into his place?"

"They were at the jail too," Margo explains. "Two of them. Same story as you. Old woman lured them to the forest, then kicked them through the portal. We offered to bust them out too, but they begged me not to. Guess even a New York jail trumps living on the Floating Island."

"Huh," Eliot says.

"Uh guys," Julia says, in the background, "did something go a bit wrong while we were out?"

Eliot's mostly locked-in by Margo's arms, and his around her, but he twists his head back to see Julia staring at the scorched counter.

"Um," Eliot says, grimacing.

"I can probably fix that," Quentin murmurs to Julia, eyes tracking the large scorch mark.

Margo lifts an eyebrow when Eliot looks back at her with a guilty expression.

"Babe," Margo says, "did you try and burn their place down after they were so nice and helped us?"

"It's a bit more complicated than that," Eliot says. "And I don't wanna stop hugging you, but I made a promise to someone, and there's something I need to do before we can go."

Margo's brow furrows, but she nods and reluctantly steps back. "Sure. I'll catch up with Fen. Might shout at her a bit."

Eliot strokes Margo's face, thrilling at her smile, and then takes a deep breath after Margo pats him on the ass and hurries off to where Fen is hovering anxiously, having held back while Margo and Eliot had their reunion. When Eliot turns around, both Kady and Teddy are staring at him anxiously, Quentin is prodding at the burned part of the counter, Julia's happily munching on a stolen bread roll, and Penny's rummaging in the fridge for a beer.

"Teddy," Eliot murmurs, "how about you go see if the bunnies are ready to go? Margo and I will be taking them with us."

Teddy nods, his face looking pinched, and he hurries off to the rabbits after a guilty look in Quentin's direction.

Quentin straightens up, following all those motions, and putting a few things together, mostly incorrectly, probably—his expression sobers and he looks worriedly from the scorch marks to Eliot to Teddy, who's stubbornly kneeling down at the rabbit run, facing away from them.

"We had an incident while you were out," Eliot says, awkwardly. Julia, sensing the mood change, pockets her purloined bread roll and moves to flank Quentin protectively—Penny automatically does too. Kady stays with her arms folded off to one side.

"Don't tell me Teddy did this," Quentin says, in a quiet, worried voice. "Eliot—"

Eliot looks at Quentin miserably, because he can't deny it, and then he holds up his hands and runs rapidly through a very showy silence bubble.

Quentin's somber expression rapidly morphs into fury, because the spell Eliot used isn't the subtle muffling ones that muggles never notice. This is dramatic, a glittery bubble of a shield that surrounds them in a light show, like jagged shards of crystals are forming a dome over them.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Quentin grits out, his hands moving out like he's about to try and fight Eliot, and oh, that feels wrong. "I have one rule for my son, Eliot, _one,_ I thought you understood—"

"Q," Julia says, her mouth turning down at the edges. "Give him a second to explain."

"Explain?" Quentin's eyebrows lurch towards his hairline. " _Explain?_ "

"You were worried Teddy was getting into pyromania," Eliot says, loudly. "You were a couple of letters off the truth."

Quentin's frown deepens. "What—?"

"Oh god," Julia breathes. "Pyromancy."

Eliot looks at Quentin apologetically, and gestures at the scorch marks. "Your kid's a wizard, Harry."

If Eliot didn't know his flashy silence spell distorted freezing spells, he'd suspect Quentin had been hit by one, because for a long, long moment Quentin doesn't move in the slightest. His face is frozen, panic stilling him so intensely that Eliot doesn't even think he’s breathing.

"Apparently Teddy's known about magic for years, Q," Kady says, relaxing her pose and moving closer to stand closer to Eliot.

Eliot looks at her. "I thought you were hanging me out to dry."

Kady pats him on the shoulder. "Well, apparently, I _am_ part of team fuck-up," she says, and crosses over to Penny, whacking _him_ on the shoulder with much more force. "Vanishing where the kid could see? Are you kidding me?"

Penny's eyes widen and then he looks instantly guilty as Quentin whirls to stare at him.

"Pen," Julia breathes. "Seriously?"

"And he's heard us all talking about magic—apparently our home has some child-size crawl spaces in the walls we didn't know about," Kady says, to Julia.

"Shit," Julia breathes, turning to stare at Quentin. "Q, I'm so sorry, I didn't know—we didn't know."

"And Teddy never said anything," Quentin says, his voice terribly, _horribly_ hollow. Eliot hates the sound of it. He’s desperate to comfort Quentin in this moment, because Quentin looks wrecked, pale and wretched with it, horror dawning in his eyes. "I—he never said anything." His mouth wobbles and his breathing picks up speed. Quentin looks at Eliot, his lovely mouth turned into a heartbreaking frown. "And you said he'd known for years?"

Kady said that part, actually, but Eliot nods. Eliot's chest is tight and his eyes feel hot and itchy. He can't imagine what Quentin's feeling right now, only that he's obviously in agony, and Eliot wants to wrap him in a hug, and stroke his hair, and let him know that everything's going to be okay, because his kid is amazing, and this isn't the end of the world.

"But he didn't tell me," Quentin says, and—Eliot can't describe what happens to Quentin in that moment. He's a puppet that’s had all its strings sliced, or a painting that's had all its color stolen. Eliot's entire body hurts, seeing it. Quentin should be in his arms right now, but he's not, he's standing frozen in the middle of this glimmering magical circle and he's breaking apart from the inside out. "He didn't tell me. He didn't _tell_ me. I fucked up, my son, he should tell me things, he should feel like he can tell me anything, Eliot—"

The way Quentin says _Eliot_ breaks whatever damn invisible magic is holding Eliot in place. Quentin saying his name with such heartbreaking misery sends him forwards, like a magnet, and Quentin's finally in his arms, just like he should be, settling in while Eliot runs a hand up his back soothingly.

"Breathe," Eliot whispers. Gods, Quentin's so _cold_ against him, and he's shaking. "Breathe. Q. Come on. Breathe. This is gonna be okay."

"How?" Quentin pulls out of Eliot's grip but only partway, still letting Eliot bracket him, a hand at each elbow. "It's not okay!"

"It will be," Eliot says, as forcefully as he can, with the full conviction of his faith weighting each word. "It _will_ be okay. Teddy's really level-headed about it. Very rational. He's definitely going to need some training, but his heart was in the right place. He only asked me to tell you instead of himself because he didn't want to see you upset. He wanted to protect you as long as he could."

"It's my job to protect him," Quentin whispers. A tear escapes from his eyes and Eliot lifts up a hand to brush it away.

"He's safe. He's unharmed. And now that you know, that's how he's going to stay," Eliot says. "You have an _amazing_ kid. And there's no manual to this. You've been doing your best and he knows that."

"That kid loves you a _stupid_ amount, Q," Kady says, and Eliot tries not to startle—he'd completely forgotten anyone else was within the bubble with them. "He was literally just whining about a future where he might not get to see you every day."

Quentin's expression crumples even further at that, and he buries his face in Eliot's shoulder. Eliot rubs his back soothingly, shooting a worried glance at Julia over Quentin's shaking head. Julia looks about as heartbroken as Eliot feels, and he gestures her over, beckoning her to take Quentin, as much as he doesn’t want to. If Eliot stays here a second longer, he's not going to ever let go.

Quentin moves easily as Eliot hands him over, melting into Julia's grip. Eliot wanders away as far as the dome will allow him; he has to turn his back to the scene to wipe his own eyes. That was so much more difficult than he thought it would be. Breathing hurts more than it should, too. Eliot's too busy focusing on measured breathing to initially notice that Kady has come up alongside him. She's squeezing his shoulder in support, and she winces at him in commiseration.

"You did good," Kady says.

Eliot manages a weak smile. "Doesn’t feel like it.”

"You really gotta head back to Fillory?" Kady pulls a face. "I gotta say, I was serious about that job offer."

Eliot's smile strengthens by a fraction. "I appreciate that. But what job can beat a throne?"

Kady shrugs. "What job indeed?" she asks, leveling him with a serious look before walking away.

Thankfully Eliot had secured the kitchen sink within his spell, so Julia's able to coax Quentin over to the sink and she washes his face, talking to him in a whisper that Eliot can't hear. Whatever she's saying, it seems to be working. Quentin's looking stronger again. More solid. The color's seeping back in, the strings pulling him upright again.

When Eliot turns around again, Quentin's looking over to where Teddy is cuddling one of the rabbits, a determined look on his face.

"You can drop it now," Quentin says.

Eliot nods, and holds his gaze as he undoes the spell. He takes a deep, shuddering breath as he watches Quentin cross the floor to his son. Something nudges him, and Eliot turns to see Julia next to him.

"Thank you," Julia says.

"Uh, I think I should be the one thanking you."

"Nope. Definitely the other way around."

Eliot frowns. "But you rescued Margo and let me stay here."

Julia shakes her head. "Rule number one of being a friend of Julia Wicker—you do _not_ tell me I'm wrong."

Eliot squints at her. "I'm your friend now, huh?"

"Mmhmm," Julia says. "You did well, back there. I know it was hard for you. So, _thank_ you."

Eliot looks away, the kind expression on her face too much to take all of a sudden. "Yeah, I guess."

Julia leans in and squeezes his hand for a second before walking away, realizing he needs a moment to himself.

Eliot takes a smoother breath, starting to regain equilibrium, and tries to catch Margo's eye. but Kady's pointing at the stairs, and Margo's already walking upstairs to the bathroom. Eliot tries not to feel relieved that he's got a reason to linger in this room. He tries to pretend he's not interested, but that lasts about one second before he's shamelessly eavesdropping on Teddy and Quentin.

Quentin is kneeling next to Teddy. "Ted. We need to talk." Teddy doesn't turn to face him, until Quentin adds, " _Kiddo._ "

Teddy turns then, and he looks miserable, and scared, and Eliot's heart clenches again, for both of them.

"I let you down," Quentin says, simply.

Teddy's fear and misery flees in favor of instant confusion. "What?" He blinks rapidly. "Dad, I—"

"I did." Quentin's gaze flits over Teddy's face. "I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Sometimes we do things with the best of intentions, but it doesn't always mean it's the right thing."

"What are you talking about?" Teddy looks genuinely baffled.

"Somehow," Quentin says, "I've let you think it's your job to protect me, to keep me safe from things. It's not. That's my job, for _you._ It's my job to protect you. It's not your job to protect me from anything."

Teddy's mouth wobbles. "But—"

Quentin cups his son's face gently in both hands. "I need to know you feel safe enough to tell me anything, the good and the _scary_ and the bad and... _anything_. I promise you, I won't ever be angry at you if you do."

Teddy's voice is small, uncertain. "You're not angry now?"

"Only at myself for letting you down," Quentin drops one hand, but uses the other to cup Teddy's cheek carefully.

"You didn't let me down! You _never_ let me down. I was even gonna tell you tonight but I got scared and Eliot was right here—"

"We can use that as a strategy if you need to, if you need someone else to pass the message to me. As long as you _tell me._ "

"I like Eliot, dad. He makes me feel—a bit like when mom was around, and there was just the three of us."

Eliot looks away. He’s been overstepping with the two of them from the beginning, from the moment he’d decided to clean their whole apartment from top to bottom without even asking. He'd been so desperate in a way he couldn't explain, so certain the two of them deserved something nice in their lives; a few hours of intense cleaning had seemed so little at the time. Even now, it still doesn't feel like enough.

"I'm so sorry I couldn't convince your mom to stay," Quentin says.

"Oh, no, it's only nice when people are around who _want_ to be.” Teddy says that with such conviction that Eliot almost wants to laugh. "I guess that's Alice, huh?"

Eliot can't see Quentin's face, but he can picture Quentin's look of surprise. "Uh, I mean, yeah—yeah, I guess. I mean, I've been hoping so?"

"Well, if she picks us, I guess it means she's got good taste. I can give her a chance."

"You are growing up _so_ fast," Quentin says, in a tone that clearly says he's not sure whether he likes that or not.

"Good," Teddy says, "because one day I want to be as tall as Eliot. I really like him dad, it sucks that he's leaving."

"Yeah it does suck, doesn't it?" Quentin says, and actually sighs, and Eliot shouldn't feel so good overhearing that. He shouldn't, but he does. " _But,_ we've got each other, and that's the important part, right? And, uh, I'm kinda proud, actually."

"Of what?"

"Pyromancy is part of a class that we call Physical magic," Quentin says. Eliot can hear the smile in his voice, but he doesn't turn to look at it. Quentin's smile is the kind of thing that's going to make it even harder to walk away. But who is he kidding—his resolve crumbles in seconds, and he's gifted with the reward of Quentin's happy, smiling face. "It means you're like me."

"Because you can make cards vanish!" Teddy bounces on his knees. "I _knew_ it!"

Quentin looks sheepish. Eliot can almost _see_ Quentin's internal facepalm at the realization that he hadn’t been as sneaky as he’d thought. "That's not actually my Discipline."

Teddy frowns. "What's a Discipline?"

"It's kinda your _gift,_ " Quentin gestures awkwardly. "Like yours is... fire? Terrifyingly?"

Teddy grimaces. "Yeah. I was the one who set the trash can on fire at school. I'm sorry."

"Yeah, we're gonna make sure you can control that before you're allowed back there," Quentin says. "And don't think that means no school, your Aunt Julia and I will school you _so_ much harder than school could ever school anyone."

" _Dad,_ " Teddy sighs, but sags. "Fine."

"C'mon," Quentin says, holding his hand out towards Teddy. Teddy gets to his feet and follows Quentin across the room, staring up at him dotingly. " _This_ is what I do."

Eliot hides a smile as Quentin holds up those capable hands and confidently casts a minor mending on the scorched surface, slowly returning it to its previous, unburned state.

"That's so _cool_ dad," Teddy breathes, running his hands over the counter.

"The kid wants cool, huh?" Margo's head appears over the edge of the staircase. She grins at Eliot and winks at Teddy. "What's your favorite animal?" she asks, as she hurries down the steps.

"Dragon," Quentin sighs.

At the exact same time Teddy yells, "Giraffe!"

Quentin frowns. "Huh?"

Eliot shares a grin with Kady as the latter pours herself a generous glass of whisky—Eliot’s tempted to join her, even though he knows he’ll be out the door all too soon.

Margo arches an eyebrow at Teddy and waves her hands over the repaired counter and she does one of her party tricks: forming an ice giraffe. Teddy avidly watches the giraffe lollop over the counter, before it stops by Kady's glass and promptly vomits an ice cube into it.

Kady stares at it. "I don't know if I'm grossed out or grateful," she says, squinting at the bobbing ice cube.

"Ooh," Fen hurries up to join them by the counter, "can you do a ferret, High King Margo?"

Margo squints at her. "Last time I did, Merry humped it until it was a puddle."

Merry opens his mouth to yell, but a squawk comes out—Julia's silence spell is still active. Merry chitters and dives back down into Fen's doublet with an angry expression.

"Humped?" Teddy asks, looking between the assembled adults.

Into the sudden, awkward silence, Eliot turns to Margo with a smile. "We should get going, my darling. My crown's downstairs."

Margo nods. "Well, there's no rush. We could hit the shops, maybe find a decent bar or two? Take advantage of being here. Why not? We'll send back the bunnies so Tick doesn't worry, Fillory can hold itself together for a day or two."

"Unless the Spear-Bearers get stabby," Eliot mutters.

"You've gotta let that go, babe."

"Hm. Do we have an exit plan?"

"Of course. Fen has the button."

"Oh," Eliot says, looking over to where Fen is beaming. "Really?"

"It's why I even let myself get arrested," Margo sighs. "Couldn't risk it falling into muggle hands."

Eliot frowns. "Won't the court be anxious that you haven't returned yet?"

"Relax, I told Tick it would probably be a couple of days," Margo looks over to the rabbits. "We have to send the bunnies home anyway; I'll let him know we're safe and on our way." Margo glances over to where Quentin, Kady, Penny, and Julia are listening in. Teddy's too busy coaxing the little ice giraffe into the freezer. "You can follow them to Fillory if you want, traveler. I've met someone like you before, she could follow the messenger bunnies with a touch."

Penny side-eyes her. "Why would I do that, even if that works? I'm not a taxi, lady."

Margo smiles as she heads over to the rabbits. "Of course it works," she says, as she pulls out both rabbits at once out of the run. "You can blip right back, of course, before Tick makes you explain who you are."

Penny followed her across the floor. "And I repeat: why would I even want to do that?"

"I don't know," Margo says, nuzzling the rabbits with her nose. "You and your friends looked after the King _and_ rescued the High King of a whole-ass country, why would you want the route to a fantasy kingdom where the ruling High King owes you a favor and has a big old fancy castle you can stay in any time for free? We have hot spas a few minutes away, where clothing is _very_ discouraged.”

"I'll be right back," Penny says at once.

Margo grins. "Thought you might see it that way."

Eliot watches as she whispers her messages to both of the bunnies, and Penny disappears briefly with the second one. He blips back a few seconds later.

"Nice castle, I guess," Penny says, brushing blossom petals off his shoulders.

"Well, I suppose that's that," Eliot says. "Time to go."

"Now?" Quentin says, and then looks surprised, like he didn't mean to say it. "I mean, now. Yes. Um. Bye? I'm really glad my son didn't kill you?"

Margo gives Eliot a confused glance. "Huh?"

"I was gonna skip the part of the story where I nearly got knocked on my ass by a child, thanks," Eliot mutters.

"Aw, baby," Margo says.

"Y'know, you're welcome to come back for dinner," Julia says. "If you're going to be hanging around for a couple hours anyway, why not? Eliot and Fen already did half the work for it." Julia looks at Margo. "Q's introducing his new girlfriend to us, and he's nervous, so the more people here, the less pressure there’ll be on him."

"I think we've imposed on you enough," Eliot says, mostly because he knows that's the polite thing to say. He hopes it's not obvious how much he wants it. Quentin's looking between Julia and Margo like he really is eager for their company, but that might be because what Julia said is true—Quentin is incredibly nervous about introducing Alice to his friends.

"Wait, Eliot’s staying for dinner?" Teddy leans into Quentin's side, wrapping his arm around his dad's.

“Eliot probably wants to go home, Teddy-bear," Quentin says, but he doesn't look happy, and Eliot feels buoyed by that.

Eliot glances at Margo, and she's looking between him and Quentin with a shrewd expression that Eliot really doesn't like.

"You know what," Margo says, "I'm pretty sure it would be rude not to. And as a High King, I _hate_ to stomp on etiquette like that." She turns to Julia. "When is this dinner?"

Julia claps her hands together and looks pleased. "Seven PM?"

Margo considers that for a moment and nods. "Sounds good to me. We'll bring some wine."

Julia beams. "Great!"

Eliot has to focus on controlling his face because it wants to grin widely and he doesn't want to look like an idiot. "I guess we'll see you then," Eliot says softly, looking at Quentin; for a moment, their eyes lock, and Quentin's shy, pleased nod is the only thing Eliot sees. That, and a faint hint of pink crawling into Quentin's cheeks.

"We'll see you then, then," Quentin says, beautifully awkward, as always.

Eliot nods. That's all he trusts himself to do. Then he rallies, and holds his arm out to Margo. "Shall we?"

Margo grins at him and wraps her arm in his. "Lead on." She claps her hands. "Fen. Follow behind. We need someone to carry our purchases."

Eliot can't stop himself from throwing a glance back as they exit the penthouse apartment. Quentin's snuggling Teddy while he edges his son away from the food for that night. Eliot swallows down the lump in his throat. Gods, Alice is so lucky.

"They seem nice," Margo says, dragging Eliot's attention back to her.

"Oh, they are," Fen says loudly from behind them. Kady hasn't returned Fen's knife belt to her, which makes Eliot breathe easier—if he doesn't stop for his crown, and Fen doesn't have her knives, then it's a reason to come back here. A practical one, that sounds so much saner than the thought racing through Eliot's head: that he doesn't think he'll be okay, if he doesn't get to see Quentin and Teddy again. "They're all so nice!"

"Yeah," Eliot echoes. "Kady and Quentin were Physical kids."

"Yeah, Quentin mentioned that on our way here," Margo says, nodding. "I like him. Nerdy. Rambly." There's a sly turn to her mouth when she says, "Kinda high-strung."

"I suppose," Eliot says, trying to avoid her knowing gaze. "His girlfriend is nice. I met her briefly. I was mostly naked and lying under her boyfriend at the time—accidental collision—but it didn't make the best first impression."

"Hmm, I think we need a drink before we shop," Margo says. "I need to hear this story and I want you to linger on the mostly-naked part."

"Of course," Eliot says. "I think I can handle the ATM spell a few times."

"Oh please, you think I didn't leave my giant trust fund set up so I could still access it if Fillory fell through?" Margo rolls her eyes. "Babe, I love you, and I _love_ our adventures, but I wasn't going to throw all my chips on _Fillory_ succeeding. I had a back-up plan for if we had to come crawling back to Earth." Margo makes a complex gesture and whips out a bank key. "Mama hid _this_ in a sub-space pocket for emergencies. It opens a _very_ nice safe deposit box in a bank in lower Manhattan." She beams at him. "Shall we go?"

Eliot grins at her. "If getting day-drunk on actually decent vodka doesn't constitute an emergency, then what does?"

Margo grins at him. "I couldn't agree more."


	10. Quentin

"This is quite the party," Alice says, blinking around at the penthouse.

"Uh, yeah," Quentin says. He ducks his head sheepishly. "My friends are all _really_ excited to meet you."

It had been a fun but frantic afternoon setting up. Now that magic wasn't a secret anymore, Julia and Kady had decided to spoil Teddy rotten, and spent four hours decking the penthouse out with magical party effects and exquisitely charmed decorations, to Teddy's constant, wide-eyed astonishment.

Kady charmed the windows so each panel looks out on a different view. The Eiffel tower, illuminated spectacularly against the dark Parisian night is sandwiched by the Golden Gate bridge, bisecting a cloudy mid-afternoon sky, and the morning sun glinting off the Sydney Opera House. Julia brought out her favorite party piece—an illusion of a fountain, koi carp swimming around, each one a different color so there's an entire rainbow of them circling the three strategically-placed ice buckets, holding the beer Kady, Julia, and Penny prefer. The table has been extended so it's big enough to seat all of them _and_ all the food that Josh is happily setting out.

Quentin had thought all the food Kady, Eliot, Teddy, and Fen had prepped would be enough for a dinner party all on its own, but when Quentin said that, Josh and Julia laughed in his face. He's still sulking, actually, because this is _way_ too much food. Well. It won't be the first time Josh has gone overboard. They always make sure to give the excess to people who really need it. And somehow, despite the already crowded table, Josh is _still_ cooking, humming under his breath as he makes some sort of complicated-looking omelet.

"Let me take your coat," Quentin rallies after a moment.

Alice smiles at him and shimmies out of her tan trench coat, handing it and her purse to him, and he quickly turns, turning in a full circle before deciding where he wants to put it, which thankfully seems to make Alice's smile widen.

Alice has dressed up for the night. She looks incredible: the dress she's wearing is the same shape as her usual ones, but this one has a lacy top and she's wearing fishnet stockings and her arms are bare. She always looks good, but tonight there's a different air about her. Quentin's brain fills in the world _royal_ out of nowhere, but he's embarrassed by that thought, since it seems so connected to Eliot.

Alice. _Alice._ That's who he's supposed to be thinking of. Not Eliot. Quentin's running over what words to say to tell her how pretty she looks tonight, but gets distracted, mostly because as he approaches Alice, someone else does too. Quentin tries not to pull a face as Penny bounds over, grinning inanely.

"Yo, Coldwater, introduce me first, I'm the important one," Penny says.

"You must be Penny Adiyodi," Alice says, holding out her hand to shake Penny's. He looks surprised but indulges her. "I'd love to ask you some questions about your Discipline. I find it extraordinarily fascinating, I'd love to pick your brain about it sometime." Alice blinks rapidly, looking uncertain of herself. "I mean, if you don't mind. It's okay if you don't want to. I—"

Quentin can feel that same old rush of _charm_ wash over him at her own socially awkward manner. It's one of the things they have in common.

Penny smiles. "Of course. I find it refreshing that you asked outright, rather than dancing around the subject. And most people just ask me for a free lift to Hawaii."

"Well, I probably wouldn't turn that down," Alice says.

Julia edges in closer. "Has Quentin said yet how gorgeous you look tonight? Because I don't mind plagiarizing him, you look stunning," Julia enthuses, leaning in and pressing a kiss against Alice's cheeks twice, European style.

Alice's cheeks pinken. "He hasn't. But thank you."

" _Q,_ " Julia chastises, thumping him with her unfairly bony elbow.

"I was gonna," Quentin defends, winded. "But Penny distracted me."

"How am _I_ at fault for you being a bad boyfriend?" Penny rolls his eyes.

"He's not a bad boyfriend," Alice says, primly. "And I haven't told _him_ yet how handsome he looks. It's the twenty-first century. I refuse to hold onto outdated ideals. It's as much my role to say it first as his."

"Um. Thank you," Quentin settles on, because what are compliments except a thing he can never manage to handle gracefully, giving or receiving? "You do look—really pretty, Alice."

"Pretty? She looks hot as fuck, Coldwater," Kady says, holding her hand out to Alice for a handshake. Alice takes it, looking startled as Kady openly gives her an appreciative elevator look. " _Way_ out of your league, Q."

"Thanks," Quentin says, mildly. " _Love_ how you guys always boost my self-esteem."

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm as much of a social mess as Quentin is," Alice says, and then smirks at Kady, one eyebrow raised. "But I'm a _hot as fuck_ mess."

Julia bursts out laughing, and Alice looks exceptionally pleased with herself for her bravery. "Oh, I like this one already," Julia says, as she wraps an arm around Quentin. "You find some good people, Coldwater. I might keep you."

Quentin inhales raggedly, and forces a smile, although his chest is warm with a fondness for his friends. They're all little shits, but then so is he, and he loves them dearly. "And you already know my son, Teddy," Quentin says, beckoning Teddy closer.

Julia and Penny coerced Teddy into wearing a bowtie, and Quentin's not gonna lie, his son looks _adorable,_ even though Quentin's already seen Teddy tugging at it miserably a few times.

"Hi," Teddy says, in a really small voice. "I like your dress."

"Even your son can do it better than you," Penny says. Quentin narrows his eyes.

Alice smiles at Teddy and leans over awkwardly. "Thank you, Teddy. You look very smart."

"I know," Teddy sighs. "It's dreadful."

Quentin hadn’t realized how deeply he'd convinced himself that Eliot isn't coming back, until the door opens to Margo, Eliot, and Fen, and it feels like they've brought all the oxygen back in with them.

Julia gives him a look that Quentin chooses to ignore.

"Eliot!" Teddy yells, and takes off running.

"Don't hit him with another door," Quentin yells after him.

"Hey, glad you could make it," Kady says, heading over to help Margo, Eliot, and Fen with their coats. Coats they didn't have before, but Quentin can see what looks like at least thirty shopping bags between them. They really _have_ made the most of being on Earth. The three of them standing together makes it impossible to ignore the thought that all three of them are _insanely_ attractive. That tracks with Quentin's involved Fillorian daydreams as a kid, actually—that everyone there is impossibly pretty. Margo and Eliot must have fit right in.

"Oh," Alice says, in a small voice. "I didn't know he'd still be here."

Quentin frowns and opens his mouth to say something, but can't figure out what to say.

"It's my fault," Julia says, rescuing him. "We helped his friends find him—that's Margo and Fen—they'll be going back to their home...country tonight. Thought we'd send them off with some good American cuisine to celebrate their bon voyage."

"Oh," Alice repeats, and she smiles, but it seems forced. "Well. That's nice of you. And he's foreign. That's interesting."

Quentin frowns, because Eliot's not really _foreign,_ but when he tries to say something, Julia squeezes his hand sharply. That's _Julia_ for _whoa there, hold up, don't say anything._ Quentin turns his frown to her.

"Who's a woman gotta shank around here for a drink," Margo declares.

"Feel free to stab Coldwater a little if you want," Penny says, winking at Quentin.

"Oh for heaven's—" Quentin exhales, and then smiles. "Excuse me," he says, to Alice. "I'll be right back."

Margo looks _stunning_. Alice's dress somehow looks almost plain next to what Margo's wearing—a sleek leather jacket and a fitted red-and-black floral dress, and _impossibly_ high heels that Quentin thinks he could manage about two steps in before breaking his neck. She's striding across the floor with graceful ease.

"Red or white," Quentin says, and tries not to look over to where Eliot and Fen are with Kady, who's helping them stack their shopping in the corner. Quentin fails miserably—Fen's wearing a sparkly dress, but as soon Kady returns Fen’s knife belt to her, Fen immediately puts it on, over the top of her dress. And Eliot—Quentin honestly and embarrassingly forgets how to breathe, because Eliot… regal and kingly doesn't even cover it this time. Eliot's wearing modern upscale clothing: a black suit that fits him like a glove; a navy silk shirt that's upstaged by a paisley tie and vest that clash in a riot of crimson and gold; black shoes that look Italian and expensive. For the first time, Eliot looks like he's from New York, not Fillory. And yet he still looks entirely unreal, like Quentin somehow imagined him into life.

"Earth to Coldwater," Margo says. Quentin startles. When had Margo gotten so close? "I know the view's distracting. But if I don't get some alcohol soon I'm gonna start blasting things and I dunno, maybe your son might like the _option_ of a sibling in the future."

Quentin grins. He should be entirely terrified, he thinks, but instead, he finds her incredibly entertaining. He doesn't know what that says about him or Margo, but he can understand part of why Eliot's so desperate to stay with her—he gets the feeling that at the very least, with Margo Hanson in your life, you’d never be bored.

"Let's see what we can get you," Quentin says, and leads her over to the bar.

* * *

Despite that brief moment of awkwardness when Alice realized Eliot hadn't gone home yet, the dinner party actually kicks off with minimal issue. Julia's been more of a wizard than a magician with the seating; at first, Quentin had been worried to find Alice seated so far across from him, but then he remembers that Alice is there to meet his _friends._ They already know they like _each other,_ this is more a check to see if Alice is compatible with Julia, Kady, and Penny.

Surprisingly, Julia put Margo next to Alice, which isn't what Quentin was expecting, because Margo's leaving in a few hours, there's no reason to really see if she and Alice get on. But he ends up appreciating it: if Alice can take Margo's coarse humor, then Kady's will seem like a walk in a park on a sunshiny summer day.

None of the problems Quentin predicted have occurred, which is more of an achievement than that sounds on the surface. Quentin's anxiety often manifests in epic catastrophizing. And when he's stressed (and what's more stressful than introducing your girlfriend to the people who you love most in the world), the bar of what counts as a catastrophe is practically on the floor.

Even more astoundingly, Alice takes Fillory in her stride, instead of questioning Margo and Eliot's sanity. Quentin has been discombobulated about it since Eliot arrived, but Alice calmly and quickly adapts. She’s amazing. And Kady's right—way out of his league.

"I've heard about the Neitherlands, of course," Alice says. "I've been trying to get permission from the Magicians' Court to travel there on a research mission. Perhaps even to Fillory itself. I read the books. It might have everything I need."

"If you're expecting grand quests or adventure," Margo says, "then you're shit out of luck. The most fun we have is avoiding being murdered and extracting occasionally interesting spells from an archive that stinks like week-old cabbage."

Quentin skips the coleslaw he was reaching for. Teddy, sitting at Quentin's right, snickers up at him.

"The murder part sounds, uh, less than compelling," Alice admits, playing with a piece of her hair before tucking it behind her ear.

"For some reason people keep trying to murder me in my bath," Margo sighs.

"I have my theories about that," Eliot says, and Quentin smiles over at him. Eliot's at the furthest possible part of the table from Alice, and that's probably for the best, but it means he's further away than Quentin would like. Eliot's going home soon. Quentin probably won't even get the opportunity for one last private conversation. Eliot's been so nice to him; Quentin wants to make sure Eliot returns to Fillory just as uplifted. If Eliot thinks Quentin can achieve great things, then Quentin wants Eliot to know for sure he can change things in Fillory too.

"I think it's because you're less defended and more easy to stab in the bath," Fen says.

"I think it's because bathrooms are easier to clean," Eliot says.

"That makes sense," Kady says, nodding appreciatively. "If I was going to clandestinely murder someone, I'd choose the room with easily scrubbed surfaces."

"Can we, um, limit the number of discussions about murder when my kid is at the table, please?" Quentin begs.

"Aww," Teddy says, pulling a face. " _I_ didn't mind it."

"Then have some pity for your poor frazzled father," Quentin says, ruffling Teddy's hair, grinning when his son doesn't manage to dodge it this time. Teddy narrows his eyes like he's thinking about going after his dad in return. Quentin’s hair is down today, so Teddy might actually be able to do some damage.

He’d decided on the loose hair when he and Teddy were getting ready for the party. He’d been about to tie it back, but a voice in his head whispered, _you should leave your hair like this more often_ in Eliot's voice and Quentin ended up relegating his hair tie to his wrist instead. His fingers find it now briefly, but Teddy backs down, obviously not wanting to get sent to bed early.

As a reward for not retaliating, Quentin leans over and undoes Teddy’s bowtie, pocketing it with a wink and a grin. Teddy tries to wink back, but just blinks instead. Well, Quentin supposes his kid can’t be good at _everything._

"What is it that you'd be interested in studying in Fillory?" Margo asks, smiling at Alice. Quentin admires how easily Margo seems to manage eye contact; Alice, on the other hand, keeps having to look away to collect her thoughts.

"Uh, I'm working on a Grand Unified Theory of Magic," Alice says, her voice pitching unsteadily. "As part of it, I need to examine how the same spell works in different Circumstances, with different levels of ambient magic."

"Why do you need the Courts' permission?" Margo leans back in the chair, crossing her legs. "If the High King gave you permission directly, you wouldn't need it."

"Oh," Alice blinks. "Uh. Wow. Do you think he would?"

Margo winks. "I can put a good word in with her."

"The High King of Fillory is a woman," Alice says. "Hm. I think I like the sound of your world more and more."

"I bet there are some interesting cultural differences," Julia says. "If I had a spare decade, a deep dive into the anthropological development of an entirely different world…" she trails off, deep in thought; Quentin knows her well enough to know she's already penning an abstract for that thesis in that big brain of hers.

"Fillorian culture has its quirks," Eliot says, smiling over at Margo. "I mean, we may have wrecked it by bringing in diplomacy."

"You didn't wreck it at all," Fen says, loudly. "You saved it. You were a _terrible_ High King, sire."

Eliot's mouth goes slack and Margo almost chokes on a mouthful of wine.

"The little man in the radio that Kady showed me told me I should face up to the impossibility of my one-sided crushes and take the focus of my affection off the pedestal I have put them on and see them for who they truly are," Fen says, and beams at Eliot. "I'm not sure what a pedestal is, but by acknowledging your faults, I find you _much_ less attractive."

"Thanks," Eliot says. "I think?"

" _Would_ it be anthropology though?" Quentin asks. "Because that's the study of humans, and, I mean, are Fillorians human? Or something similar? Except if Fen is anything to go by, maybe anthropology is the right term. She does speak English, unless that's some sort of residual Fillorian enchantment?"

"Legend has it that the wellspring blessed our water so all who hear us can understand us," Fen says.

"There might be something in that," Margo says, shrugging. "There's never been any obvious reason why some animals can talk and some can't."

An angry little furry head pops out of Fen's chest. Apparently she's been...keeping a ferret in her bra? Quentin blinks a few times. What?

"That is _massively_ incorrect," the ferret yells.

"Is that a talking ferret or has all this food been drugged?" Alice asks in a faint voice. The drugged food idea isn’t as crazy as it sounds—Josh _did_ cook half of the food himself. Quentin eyes Josh, who's seat next to Fen leaves him extremely close to the angry looking animal.

" _Clearly_ the ones of us who can talk are the ones with superior brains," the ferret yells.

It has a much deeper voice than Quentin would have expected a talking ferret to have. Much like the messenger bunnies, actually. He has an idle fantasy that the pitch of the voice could be inverse to the size of the animal. A talking hippo might talk in a pitch so high only bats can hear.

The ferret was still talking, pinning Margo with an incredulous stare. "Your Majesty _must_ have been joking."

"Merry, don't shout at the High King like that," Fen hisses.

Alice turns to stare at Margo, wide-eyed.

" _Told_ you I could put a good word in with her," Margo says, winking at Alice. "Don't suppose you can cook, too? Because I'm already _this_ close to stealing you away."

"Hey," Quentin says, uneasily.

Alice offers Quentin a shy smile. "A King's talking about whisking me away to a magical kingdom, Quentin. Don't ruin this for me." She turns back to Margo and wrinkles her mouth. "Unfortunately, I can burn water."

"And even more sadly, I'm not a girlfriend thief," Margo sighs. "Were you single, I would be wooing the fuck out of you right now."

"I'm sitting right here," Quentin says.

" _I_ can cook," Josh offers from the other side of the table. "Half of this feast is made with these fair hands!"

That probably would have gone over better, Quentin thinks, if Josh didn't have ketchup streaked down one of said fair hands.

Margo turns her seductive smile from Alice towards Josh.

"Oh no," Julia says. "Oh come on, we're barely covering the store shifts as it is."

"But—I'd get to wear a white hat," Josh says.

"And have full run of a giant kitchen," Margo says. "And multiple kitchen minions."

"I'll buy you a hat," Julia says, folding her arms.

"Fillorianpology, maybe," Quentin blurts, loudly. "Fillthropology? Fillanthropology?"

"That sounds like a rejected name for a clothing store," Penny says with a roll of his eyes.

"The culture must be really different," Kady says, helping Quentin to change the topic back to safer ground. "What's Fillorian music like?"

"A lot of string instruments," Margo says, pulling a face. "Babe, you wanna let them hear?"

Eliot squints. "The—one that they're practicing for your balls?"

"Mm, my ball music," Margo nods. "Nice."

"High King Margo is currently in the process of throwing several royal balls to find a True Love," Fen says, her eyes shining excitedly. "Isn't it such an innovative and brand new idea? She's so smart. We don't know how she thought of it. Throwing a week of parties to find a romantic partner and inviting all eligible individuals from across the country. _Amazing._ "

"What can I say," Margo says, as Quentin buries a smile. "I'm an innovator."

Eliot brings up his hands and Quentin is entranced by every movement he makes. Whatever spell Eliot is performing—and performance is the right thought for it, because Eliot does magic like he's on stage, like he's _meant_ to have a thousand eyes on him at all times—he finishes it off with a double fingersnap that Quentin’s not sure is actually part of the magic. It's beautifully dramatic, either way, and a moment later, music starts to float through the air.

Kady excuses herself from the table to hurry over and turn the sound system off—they'd had a low easy-listening radio station on in the background—and even she smiles at the music that seems to come from absolutely nowhere.

"See, it's kinda boring," Margo sighs.

"Eh, you can dance to it," Kady says, and wriggles her hips. "That makes it good enough in my book."

"You know what," Julia says, pushing her chair back and standing up, "if my baby wants to dance, I'm not going to say no."

"I thought you said Julia's dancing was dubious," Eliot says to Quentin, who stares back at him in horror. That had been a secret.

"You _what_?" Julia pauses, midway to Kady's outstretched arms, and whirls to face Quentin, a scandalized expression on her face. "You little _shit,_ Coldwater, excuse you, it's on. Right here, right now. Three says everyone picks _me_ as the best dancer."

"You're on, Wicker," Quentin standing up and smoothing his shirt down. "What are the terms?"

"How about Fen and I show you all a traditional Fillorian dance, and that levels the playing field," Margo suggests. "A new dance neither of you has ever seen. Same length of time to pick it up. And you let me, Fen, and Eliot pick the winner because we're unbiased."

"Objection," Julia says, "Eliot's biased as fuck."

Quentin glances over at Eliot automatically; Eliot holds up both of his hands.

"Probably, I guess," Eliot sighs.

"Fen and I might argue," Margo says.

"I can be a deciding vote if you need," Josh offers. "I'm not romantically entangled or related to either of them, both of them are my bosses, and if the one I don't pick tries to get revenge, well, I guess I have a fancy new job offer in the air anyway?"

"Your terms sound acceptable, I suppose," Quentin says, and eyes Julia challengingly.

Julia pretends to consider it and then shakes hands with him firmly. "I'll show you dubious," she says, and Quentin waggles his eyebrows at her. He's probably going to lose, but who cares when it's in the name of fun?

* * *

Quentin does lose, magnificently tripping over his own feet into Julia's arms only ten steps into what Margo calls a Fillorian square dance, but Quentin is pretty sure is just a highly-stylized rendition of a chicken being flustered from its coop. The perfect daydreams he had of Fillory as a child did not include their dances resembling—well, the sort of dances he and Julia did in their late teens, when they'd recently discovered alcohol and thought they could actually handle it.

Julia laughs at his failure and spins him into a more usual variety of dance, and the next thing Quentin realizes is their dinner party has morphed into a dance party. He even allows Kady and Julia to sandwich him for a minute, actively knowing that he's gonna get hauled out by a jokingly too-jealous Penny a minute later; he laughs when that happens, and scoops up Teddy for one of their patented tangos that makes Teddy giggle nonstop.

Quentin dips Teddy in front of Alice, and Alice curtsies.

"May I cut in?" Alice asks.

Teddy straightens and angles the cutest ever bow at her, because Quentin's son is _delightful,_ and Quentin loves him so much, forever and ever, who needs True Love when you have a love like _this_ in your life, anyway?

"You may," Teddy says, solemnly, and is clearly expecting Alice to dance with Quentin—he yelps when she grabs him and spins away, winking at Quentin as she steals him.

Quentin backs up, laughing and shaking his head at the sight, but he's his normal clumsy, non-spatially-aware self and he collides into someone as he moves; he turns his head to mumble his usual apology, and his words die in his throat.

This is the closest he's been to Eliot all night. Quentin suddenly doesn’t know what to do with himself. He knows he's still a person, he just doesn't know what that means. He has limbs, and a beating heart, and a lump of meat in his skull weakly sending out electrical signals.

"Sorry," Quentin manages to mumble. "Uh, maybe it's not solely my dancing that's dubious. Walking too, I guess."

Eliot makes a brief noise that's almost a laugh. "Your dancing wasn't dubious. It was exuberant."

Quentin wrinkles his face up. "You're being kind."

"You seem to have this weird idea that I'm a good person," Eliot says. His voice seems strained, somehow. Smaller. Weaker. Like he's sad. Quentin's chest hurts.

"You've been nothing but kind to me since the moment we met," Quentin says. "So you can see where my delusion comes from."

Eliot _does_ laugh at that. "You're easy to be nice to."

"That is the first time anyone's ever said anything like that. Although I _have_ been called easy before." Quentin waggles his eyebrows, trying to make Eliot laugh again, and it works. "C'mon, we're the only ones not dancing. Except the ferret. And I think it's—is it trying to hump the ice giraffe?"

"Uh," Eliot says, and squints in the same direction that Quentin's looking. "Yeah, I think so."

"Yikes," Quentin says, and offers a hand to Eliot. "This is a party. We're not going to be the sad sacks standing around while everyone else has fun."

Eliot huffs and shakes his head, like he can't believe this is happening, and honestly, Quentin's surprised too—he's normally the first person to skulk at the edges of a party. But there's something about tonight. Despite his less-than-stellar emotional awareness, Quentin can’t escape the thrum of feeling running through the whole room—that this is a once-in-a-lifetime kind of party. Quentin's got the rest of his life to nurse a solo cup and smuggle a book into an abandoned bedroom in a stranger’s house. Eliot's leaving. Soon. So soon. This might be the only chance he ever gets to dance with him.

That thought is sobering, and Quentin almost chickens out, but Eliot takes Quentin's offered hand in that second, and all doubt flees Quentin's mind. It must be Eliot's influence, because the ensuing dance is perfect. His body feels almost like it belong to someone else; it feels like the floor has vanished and they're floating in mid-air.

Quentin doesn't know what music is playing. The Fillorian music has ended, replaced by soft pop radio. The music filling the room now is slow and smooth, the singer's voice smoky and sensuous. The vocalist sings about the world disappearing for all but the two dancers, and Quentin looks up at Eliot at the exact second Eliot chooses to look down and their eyes lock. They're still dancing, but Quentin feels desperately unreal again.

Three things he can smell. Three things he can hear. Three things he can see. The vanilla of the spray Julia doused him with; some spilled red wine on the table, fragrant and sweet; an unfamiliar cologne, which must be Eliot's, probably from a sample desk somewhere. The song sweetly telling them how close they are to a happy end; Teddy laughing as Alice whirls him around and around; Quentin's heart pounding in his ears, so loud, _ridiculously_ loud. How broad Eliot's shoulders are, with Quentin's hands on them; Eliot's hazel eyes, with the rings of gold that match the gold in the tie Eliot's wearing; Eliot's soft lips, pink and slightly parted—

"Mind if I cut in?" Alice says, and Quentin startles, blinking at her in confusion.

"Of course," Eliot says, and turns to Teddy with a formal, small bow. "May I, young sir?"

Teddy nods and fairly drags Eliot across the dance floor.

Quentin holds his arms out and Alice steps into them. There's an awkward moment when he tries to put his hands on her shoulders, and then remembers he should be leading, and when he finally gets them on her waist, her hands primly on his shoulders, she leans in for a kiss and Quentin doesn't even register that's what is happening until she's pulling away, looking hurt.

"Sorry," Quentin says, blinking rapidly. "Uh, dancing. Yes."

Alice frowns, but steps back, and Quentin manages to recover and finish out the song, the singer's promises of happiness start to ring hollow as the song winds to a close.

"Quentin," Alice says, unsteadily, as the song fades out. She looks stiffer than she has all night, her thin shoulders squared, her eyes wide and a little wet behind her glasses. "I think we need to talk."

Quentin frowns at her. "What about?"

Alice looks away. "Outside," she says, and Quentin's stomach plummets as he nods and follows her away from the noise and sparkle of the party into the quiet hallway outside.

Quentin closes the door behind them, and when he turns to her, her mouth is pressed into a firm, determined line.

"I don't think we're going to work out," Alice says.

Quentin stares. The eight words don't make sense to him. And then they do. Shit. _Shit._ He feels cold, his skin crawling. This is it. This is what he was scared of. He's opened up to her and she's leaving him. He licks his mouth, feeling desperate. All the happiness he'd felt earlier drops away. He wonders for a moment if Margo has used her cryomancy on him, freezing him into a statue. That might be kinder, he thinks, than how he feels right this second.

"You're breaking up with me," Quentin says, slowly, trying to make sure he understands. "Do you not like my friends?"

"No, they're amazing. I like them a lot."

"If it's Teddy—" Quentin starts.

Alice shakes her head. "I think he's a wonderful young man and you've done a remarkable job with him."

"Then it's me," Quentin says, numbly. He lets the thought sink in. Yeah, okay, that makes sense.

"We can still be friends," Alice says. "We both got into this without any other prospects on the horizon. This was the optimal solution for both of us, when we started. A partnership based on a solid platonic compatibility. That's what I wanted. I like you, Q. I like you so much. That's why I can't bear the idea of being the reason you don't have more. I was okay with it when I thought we both had very limited other options. Companionship is important for happiness and I could see us cohabiting amiably until our twilight years, even if our sexual compatibility isn't as high as I was hoping for."

Quentin frowns. This isn't like any other break-up he's been through before. At least his friends are around, so he can cry on Julia's shoulder immediately, he supposes. He's going to want to, with Alice leaving him, and Eliot going back to Fillory. He'll have to hold it together until Teddy's in bed, somehow.

"Alice," Quentin says, perplexed. "If you can still picture us together happily forever, I'm not seeing what the problem is?"

Alice's face creases and she lifts up her small hand, gently cupping his cheek. "I'm making this decision for the good of both of us, Q. I deserve better than what you'd be asking me to do. Don't hurt me more by making me spell it out. I'm trying to get out with the last remnants of my dignity here."

She leans in and this time Quentin does see the kiss coming, but she aims for his cheek instead.

"I'll text you when I'm ready to be friends," Alice says. "I think that would still be good for us."

Quentin nods and steps back. "We should get your coat," he says, feeling numb.

Alice nods, trying to smile politely.

Quentin holds back as she re-enters the main room, counting to ten before he follows her in. He has to let her go. Because what's the point of forcing her to stay? He's done his best. He's let someone in, and gotten burned for it, again. Well. At least he has Teddy.

Quentin shuffles over to lurk by the table, the lights and sounds of the party washing over him, damper now. He can't make himself move. Alice is slipping away, heading over to the rack to pick up her coat and purse, and Quentin should—he sit down. There's a lot of food left. He doesn't think he can stomach bacon for a while, but there are still some of Teddy's cupcakes left, and dammit, Quentin deserves cake.

As he peels the wrapper from the cake, Quentin grits his teeth to fend off the wave of tears building behind his eyes, and as he's staring helplessly at Alice heading towards the door, someone wraps their hand around his arm. Quentin startles when he sees it's Penny.

"Sorry, man," Penny says.

"Yeah," Quentin manages, weakly. "Thanks."

"What—" Penny starts. But Quentin doesn't find out how that sentence would have ended, because Penny's interrupted—by the penthouse doors opening, and Alice stumbling back with a yelp of surprise.

A few things happen simultaneously. Kady realizes there's an interloper and shuts the music off. Penny moves forwards, bunching his fists threateningly. Fen flips two knives out of her belt in one smooth motion, spinning them effortlessly. Alice backs up nervously against the wall. And Margo swears, more loudly than she has all night.

"Fucking Ember's furry _ass crack,_ " Margo hisses, "what the hell are you doing here, Fomar?"

Oh. So _that's_ Fomar. The child who thinks he's entitled to marry Margo. This small man-child, currently stomping into the penthouse, a smarmy smile on his little round face, doesn’t look particularly threatening. Eliot had described him as a snot rag and honestly, Quentin thinks Eliot's gotten it spot on.

But, if Fen has her knives out, he must be dangerous.

Quentin glances at Penny, and Penny doesn't even wait for Quentin to say it.

"On it," Penny says, quietly, and immediately blips over to Teddy, disappearing with him a moment later.

Fomar barely even notices them, his beady eyes trained on Margo.

"I came to find _you_ , my love," Fomar announces. "You have been missing for many hours, the kingdom is in uproar."

"Back off, Floating Boy," Fen says, narrowing her eyes and surreptitiously moving so she's closer to Margo.

Margo crosses her arms and glares at him, unimpressed. "How did you even find me?"

Fomar steps further into the penthouse. "I had some of your hair, of course. Ess of Loria sold me some information from his last trip here—his father needs all the money he can get to fend off his sister, _you_ know. He found me some witches of the hedges who would do a locator spell for me. So I hopped on through the portal in the tree and came to rescue you, my darling most dearest one."

"I never need rescuing," Margo says, which is kind of a lie, because earlier that day, Quentin had had to flirt with Jennifer for over an hour while Penny systematically erased all traces of Margo's existence from the official records. Quentin is going to have nightmares about being forced to carry on a conversation about frozen peas for a solid forty-five minutes. Even his Fillory hyperfixation has nothing on that dedication. "Eliot did. But I saved him. We're having dinner with our new friends and then we're coming home."

"See, I'm perfectly safe now," Eliot says, moving to stand near Margo. He gestures up and down himself. "All nice and rescued." The smile he aims at Fomar isn't a pleasant one. "We can probably scrounge up a child-sized portion for you, if you're hungry, since you came all this way."

Margo wraps an arm around Eliot and looks up at him adoringly. "I love how mean you can be, darling."

Fomar's smug smile falls. He looks pretty damn murderous, for such a young child. "No. I can't believe this. _No._ After all the hard work I did to _get you out of the way._ "

Quentin's not the only one confused. Eliot and Margo are frowning. Penny blinks back into the room, standing protectively near Julia and Kady, and he nods over at Quentin. Teddy's safe, that's all that matters.

"What do you mean by that?" Fen demands, waggling one of her knives in his direction. "Don't make me stab you. _Answer_ me."

Fomar's smile creeps back onto his smarmy little face. "Don't you recognize me?" He pulls out a bracelet dramatically from his pocket. "Ess was also _so_ good as to sell me this trinket." Fomar pushes it onto his wrist and suddenly turns into an old woman? Quentin blinks and then rallies, looking around to see where Teddy is and starting to move closer to him. Teddy sees him and quickly hurries over, gripping Quentin's arm tightly.

"Ramof," Eliot exhales, like it means something, and he looks at Margo. "The old woman that pushed me through the portal to start with. She said her name was Ramof."

"Fomar backwards, of course," Fomar says, snapping the bracelet off and holding it loosely in his hand. "You're so slow. I can't believe you think someone as _stupid_ as you deserves someone as _radiant_ as her."

"Fomar," Margo says. "You know I'm _never_ going to love you, right?"

"That's what you say now," Fomar says, walking past her. "I'll convince you."

Quentin shifts his weight, on edge. Everyone's looking at each other warily, wondering what to do—Kady's fist is ready for some punching, but she's holding back, waiting to see what happens.

"You won't," Margo says, glaring at him. "I won't ever love you. _Ever._ Get that through your tiny skull. I loved Micah. And if you think I'd _ever_ love the bastard who killed him, you're out of your tiny, malformed little mind."

Fomar huffs a laugh, looking up at the enchanted windows before opening up the glass doors to the balcony; when he looks back, his smile has widened even more. "My brother was weak," Fomar says.

Fen gasps. "Are you _admitting_ you were behind the death of Prince Micah?"

Fomar shrugs. "You'll never prove it."

"Go home, child," Eliot says, folding his arms over his chest. It’s the ultimate insult from a magician: folding your arms means your hands aren't ready to perform a tut; the gesture is widely known in the magical community to be dismissive. "We'll see to proof later."

"Fine," Fomar says. "You want proof? How about _I_ prove how worthy I am to the throne and to High King Margo's side. You're unworthy, Eliot Waugh. The failed King. Had ultimate power and threw it away, and _still,_ she loves you." He tilts his chin. "We'll see how much she loves you when you're lying dead on the floor."

"How _dare_ you threaten the King," Fen hisses, leaping forwards, but Margo holds her back.

"He's a kid out of his league on an unfamiliar planet," Margo rolls her eyes. "What the hell can he even _try_ to do?"

"I'm gonna do better than _try,_ " Fomar says. He reaches a hand inside his mouth and he yanks, pulling out a bloodied tooth.

"Uh, well, that was gross," Julia says.

"It's the last of my baby teeth," Fomar says, and backs up to the balcony, grinning as he holds the tooth out—and drops it. Right down to where Quentin knows there's a sewer.

The facts crash together into Quentin's mind, too late to be much help.

That sewer leads to a dragon. Dragons could be summoned with baby teeth. And dragons could be bribed to do stuff, if you had something shiny...… sure enough, Fomar's now holding out one of the biggest jewels Quentin's ever seen.

"Meet my back-up plan," Fomar yells, as behind him, a giant raises up. Purple and black scales adorn its large body, black curly horns crowning its thin, lizard-like face. It's not the biggest dragon Quentin's ever heard of, but it's strong enough to send massive chunks of the balcony hurtling down to the sidewalk below with one lash of its tail. "Dragon, will this suffice for you to do my bidding?" Fomar says, holding up the jewel.

The dragon grins, revealing double rows of very pointy teeth. "Oh, I think that'll do nicely," the dragon purrs, right before it attacks.

* * *

Quentin's not used to action, so it takes him a moment to get his head in the game.

Kady's already blasting her best attack spells at the dragon, and Quentin recognizes the co-operative shield spell Margo and Eliot are starting, so he swiftly joins in. It's not enough to stop the dragon from smashing through the wall, but Quentin thinks it limits the damage. Alice kneels down behind a side cabinet, murmuring to herself, doing some sort of complex magic; Quentin feels horrible that she was trying to leave and didn't get away before this all started.

Fen leaps into action, becoming a whirling dervish with her knives. There's no trace of her happy-go-lucky persona as she throws herself at the dragon, slicing at it and contorting out of the way, neatly avoiding being hit. The fountain in the middle of the room is the next casualty of the dragon’s sweeping attack; magic splinters around the room for a moment, temporarily blinding the dragon.

Julia's crouching down behind the couch and activating the emergency layer of wards she maintains on the whole building for an invasion scenario—not that they’d planned for a dragon, exactly. One of the wards is an illusion shield, so that whatever happens, at least the neighbors won't be traumatized by seeing a marauding, rampaging dragon.

Penny starts using his gift in the most annoying way for their opponent, jumping behind the dragon, hitting, and disappearing, again and again. Quentin busies himself dashing out of the way of the dragon, having to scramble to avoid being hit by its claws, and thank goodness this dragon isn't a fire-breathing one. He focuses on trying to form another defensive shield with his hands, but for a moment, Quentin sees Julia in a direct line of danger, and it distracts him. The only reason Quentin's head isn't cracked open like a piñata by the dragon's sharp tail is because someone pushes him out of the way, and his rescuer sends them both crashing to the ground, the tail whipping through the table full of food instead. So much for eating leftovers for the rest of the week.

When Quentin looks up, it's to see the identity of his protector: Eliot. Of course.

Eliot grins at him, that perfect hair of his finally disheveled. It looks rakishly attractive on him, of course. "Do you often stand in the way of things obviously about to hit you?" Eliot teases.

Quentin huffs ruefully and lets Eliot help him to his feet. What was it that Eliot had said to him when _he_ teased him about the same thing?

"I try not to make a habit of it," Quentin says, his own mouth stretching into a grin when Eliot laughs.

Eliot's looking around at the chaos—shield casts and battle magic flying everywhere—he's obviously not on Quentin's wavelength, though, because when Quentin kneels down on the ground beside Eliot, his back facing the dragon, he looks confused.

"Not gonna say I haven't had a thousand fantasies that start exactly like this," Eliot says unsteadily, as Quentin starts to unbutton his shirt, "but is now really the time?"

Quentin grins up at him. "Oh, yeah, I'm sure," he says, and steels himself. He takes a deep breath, and then shouts the command. "Quentin says go free!"

It does hurt, Eliot's right about that much, but it isn't anywhere near as bad as the burning pain when Fogg wrestled the creature into Quentin's back to start with. And when it's gone, Quentin feels impossibly buoyant, making him realize how heavy a burden the cacodemon has been on him for all these years.

Quentin stumbles trying to get back to his feet, and Eliot helps him up, supporting him as he rises; Quentin watches in fascination as his cacodemon goes to _town_ on the dragon, not even waiting for direction. Well, Quentin supposes it's not _difficult_ to pick out the current enemy. The cacodemon is moving so furiously fast that Quentin can barely make out what it actually looks like, which is disappointing—Quentin's carried it for so long that he feels like he should already know. It's brown, he think it's wearing a pair of round glasses, and it's _strong,_ and that's about all Quentin can make out.

But it's also not strong enough, which Quentin realizes, because the cacodemon turns tail and runs, fleeing out past Fomar into the night. Shit. _Shit._ At his side, Eliot's already working on another shield spell, and Quentin joins him, his fingers moving rapidly, and his head is _pounding,_ the stress and panic and magic all taking a toll. Quentin's seriously starting to wonder whether they stand a chance, if even a cacodemon can be defeated, when a flare of light blazes up and everyone seems to be startled by it at once.

Everyone but the person creating it—Alice. Quentin barely remembers to finish his current casting, his gaze suddenly locked on where Alice is stepping forward to the center of the chaos. Alice's hands are _blazing,_ a cloud of blue energy, so potent that even the dragon falls back from the sight of it. It gives up trying to fly and lands, its wings drooping, its eyes warily tracking Alice's every movement.

"What the hell kind of spell is that?" Margo demands into the sudden clear silence, eyeballing the magic and looking majorly impressed. Quentin doesn't blame her. Alice is amazing.

Alice smiles at the dragon, off-center, manic. "It's a weaker riff on an arcane piece of magic my brother died trying to use. I've been working on it for years. It's mild enough now that it can be cast without killing the magician using it, but it's still strong enough to wipe even a medium-sized dragon off the surface of this planet—if I have to finish casting it. I can disperse it in the next minute if I have to." Her gaze meets the dragon's; the spell makes Alice look unearthly, her eyes reflecting blue from the energy in her hands. "Shall I, or do you want to test it out?"

The dragon looks like it's contemplating it for a second, but then it spits out the jewel that Fomar had given him. "No shiny pretty thing is worth _this_ much hassle," the dragon sniffs, and then as abruptly as it came, it takes off, shooting up straight into the night sky. It probably has a favorite skyscraper it can land on and licks its wounds, Quentin supposes.

"Holy shit," Julia says, as Alice does a few complicated gestures and the spell fades into nothing. "Alice Quinn, holy _shit,_ I am almost disappointed I didn't get to see you launch that full spell."

Alice laughs unsteadily, looking shaky. "It doesn't work yet," she admits. "That light show is all I've ever got it to do. Um, light's my Discipline."

"That was a _bluff_?" Penny demands, looking incredulous; Quentin doesn't blame him.

"Yeah," Alice says, arching an eyebrow directly at Fomar. "What's the twerp gonna do? That was his last baby tooth, he said it himself. Can't summon another dragon now, can he?" She smiles smugly.

Fomar's face is a thundercloud. "Yeah, well, okay, you did okay against the dragon, I suppose." He stumbles into the middle of the room, and scowls over to where Quentin is awkwardly putting his shirt on. After a moment, Quentin realizes that Fomar is actually scowling at Eliot, still hovering by Quentin's side. "This is all your fault."

" _My_ fault," Eliot says. He draws himself up taller and stalks forward, staring at Fomar in disbelief. "How is this _my_ fault?"

Fomar steps up to Eliot, trying to look tough, which makes him look even more feeble in direct physical comparison. "Because you _don't deserve her like I do,_ " Fomar says, and then moves.

Eliot reacts quickly, moving his hand to knock Fomar backwards with his telekinesis, and Fomar goes skidding across the room, slamming through the debris from the fight—they're going to need all new furniture after this, and Quentin thinks the repair work looks too big for him to handle—and it seems that Fomar’s latest attack has failed before it could even begin. But then, before Quentin can even blink, Eliot inexplicably staggers and falls to the ground.

Margo, Julia, and Quentin all run at the same time to get to Eliot's side, while Fen charges at Fomar and frisks him, depriving him quickly of his weapons. Kady's heading to help her with some zip ties, but Quentin barely registers that—his eyes are too focused on how gray Eliot suddenly looks, and the thin line of blood seeping through Eliot's navy shirt.

Fomar, the little creep, is full on _cackling._ "Taking him out is what I was aiming for with the dragon," Fomar says. "But poison will have to do, I suppose. I'd hoped to have been able to dump him through the portal to this world without fuss, but you _had_ to go charging after him. I didn't _want_ an unnecessary corpse on my hand, I'm _fifteen._ But death has always been an easy plan B. With Eliot out of the way, you and I can be together, my love."

"Shut up," Margo yells at him. "You disgusting _freak,_ you're the only one here who deserves death."

"No, don't shut up," Alice counters, glaring down at Fomar. "What poison did you use?"

Fomar huffs. "So you can figure out the antidote? I'm not that stupid, lady."

Quentin stares helplessly. Whatever poison it is, it must be fast-acting, because Eliot doesn't even look conscious.

"He's still breathing," Julia says, as Quentin desperately runs in his head through all his Healing know-how. Why did he only take one module? Why was he so stupid? Julia looks up at Penny, who's hovering close by. "Get Lipson," Julia says.

"Yep," Penny says, instantly disappearing.

"My couch survived," Josh calls over—Quentin looks up to see Josh industriously using a crude sweeping spell, to clear the couch from all the fight debris.

"Help me," Margo entreats Quentin and Julia, and Quentin nods, helping Margo lift Eliot up to carry him over to the couch. Margo kneels by his side, holding Eliot's hand, her eyes scanning his face urgently. "You better wake up, you idiot. You better fucking apologize for freaking me out like this."

"I might be able to cobble together a stasis spell," Julia says.

"Whatever the fuck you can do, do it," Margo says.

Penny blips back in, ridiculously fast, Lipson in his arms. Her hair is pulled up, and her makeup is striking; she's wearing a _very_ short dress and a displeased expression.

"This better be serious, I was two minutes from getting my groove on," Lipson says, but then she catches sight of Eliot's prone body and sallow face, and her displeasure evaporates. "Oh, my," she whispers. "I need my bag. Brakebills infirmary. My office. You remember the way?"

"On it," Penny says, and blips out again.

"How about I stab you until you tell me what we need to know," Fen's yelling in the background.

"Do you have any truth serum in stock?" Alice asks.

"Yeah," Kady says, hurrying off to go find it.

Penny blips back in with Lipson's bag, and she immediately dives in for her instruments. Quentin stares on helplessly, and finds himself being tugged backwards; he resists until he sees that it's Julia and he lets her guide him back a few paces. She doesn't make him move too far, just enough for Lipson to do her work.

"I'm sorry," Lipson says, after a few minutes, and Quentin averts his gaze briefly from Eliot to stare at her instead, confused. And then he realizes what she's saying, what those two words mean.

No. _No._ Eliot can't be dying. Quentin won't believe it. Not from something as flimsy as a knife cut. It's impossible. It's ridiculous. He won't believe it. He _can't._ He feels desperately unreal again, like he's floating out of his body, trapped in a nightmare. The floor is unsteady. Three things. That's what he needs to think about. Three things he can smell, three things he can hear, three things he can see. Eliot, Eliot's dying, Eliot's _dying,_ Eliot, Eliot, _Eliot…_ It's not working. It's not _working._

"You're what?" Margo says, folding her arms and glaring at Lipson.

Lipson lowers the device in her hand and she looks at Margo levelly. "I'm sorry," she says again, simply, and this time, Margo hears what Lipson's really saying.

That Eliot is dying.

That he's almost dead.

It doesn’t make sense. Just minutes ago, Eliot had been so alive and vibrant that Quentin can still feel the echoes of Eliot pushing him to safety. He can still hear the warmth in Eliot's tone as he joked about Quentin standing in harm's way.

"Fuck no, you're not sorry," Margo yells, instantly. " _I'm sorry_ isn't an answer. There's gonna be nothing to be sorry for. Because we're gonna get the type of poison out of the brat and you're gonna save him."

"I can't," Lipson says. "It's already reached his heart. I'm so sorry, Margo. I can make it easier for him, so he passes without pain, but—"

"No," Margo says. "No fucking way. I refuse—there has to be something."

"There's no spell on Earth that can reverse poison once it's hit a magician's heart," Lipson shakes her head. "So—"

"What if it isn't a spell on Earth," Quentin says, staring at Eliot's face. He looks at Margo uncertainly, wondering whether this is a real brainwave, or wishful thinking. When Margo looks baffled, Quentin clarifies. "True Love's Kiss."

"We can't," Margo whispers. "I read all the paperwork for it. True Love. That's _romantic._ "

"Fuck that," Quentin says, desperately. "What the hell isn't _true_ about platonic love? He's talked about you so much I feel like I already know you. He's your Julia. And you don't have a Teddy. Which means his is the most important heart in the universe that's not your own, right? Who the fuck decides that _that_ isn't the truest type of fucking love there can be?"

Margo's eyes are wide and wet and she looks stunned.

"What's the worst that can happen?" Quentin continues, seeing that she needs a tiny bit more pushing. "We do it and it fails? Then at least you'll know you tried _everything._ "

That seems to do it and Margo snaps into action.

"You, traveler," Margo says. "I need the actual spell for this. I'm not fucking it up with my best friend's life on the line. I know you said you're not a taxi, but—"

"I'm not," Penny says, coming up and taking her hand. "But I never mind being an ambulance."

The next few minutes are interminable. Both while Margo and Penny are gone, and then when they're _back,_ a large scroll in hand, and Margo unrolls it right on the floor. Quentin comes to stare at it, reluctantly glancing back at Eliot every few seconds. Looking at him like this is hard. The tuts described in the document are complex, and Quentin's finding it hard to remember how to breathe.

Julia also manages the stasis spell she mentioned, covering Eliot in a brief, shimmering translucent cloud. "It'll hold him for a while," Julia says, nodding as she finishes it. "It'll give us the time to learn this."

The spell only needs six people, and Lipson volunteers to help when Julia ends up having to tell Quentin to go sit down, because he's clearly such a failure at everything. He can't stop his stupid hands from shaking. If this spell fails because it needed one more magician, Quentin's never going to forgive himself.

Alice, Kady, Lipson, Julia, Penny, and Josh run through the motions of the spell, before nodding at each other and moving to stand around Eliot, in a circle.

"Get ready," Julia warns Margo. "I'll have to drop the stasis field to let this work."

"Eliot's probably got five minutes, once that happens," Lipson says. "We'd better do it."

Quentin stares miserably as the six magicians start casting in unison. His friends are talented; Julia takes the lead, her strident voice keeping the others on track. A blur of red smoke starts to rise up above their heads—at least it’s doing _something._

"Now," Julia says, when the red smoke solidifies into a hexagon above them and starts spinning; the six magicians casting the spell all have their hands raised up high, and they're trembling, like it hurts to hold it.

"You better wake up," Margo hisses, and leans over Eliot, and kisses him.

Quentin's holding his breath. He knows he is. His eyes linger on Eliot, looking for the faintest hint of movement.

There's nothing. How can there be nothing? How can Margo's platonic, loyal love not be _enough_?

"Maybe I can do it," Fen yells, and bounds over. She beams at Margo. "I know it's one-sided, but I've loved Eliot from the moment I met him. Maybe that's romantic and true enough?"

"Worth a try," Julia says, shrugging.

"I had imagined you'd be awake and consenting for our first kiss," Fen says, skidding past Kady to join Margo at Eliot’s side.

"Hurry, I don't know how long we can hold it," Kady hisses.

"I love you, Eliot, even though that's bad for me," Fen sighs, and leans in and kisses Eliot. He does move, but it's only his body rocking gently from her kiss. She scowls and tries again, and a third time, and Margo pulls her off.

"That's enough, Fen," Margo says. "It's not working." She takes a shuddering breath. Over in the corner, Fomar's smirking, even though he's tied up six ways to Sunday.

"We'd better let this go," Lipson says.

"No," Quentin breathes, staring at Eliot. Eliot's asleep, surely. He's not dying. There's no way he's dying. "This can't be it."

"We've tried everything, Q," Julia says, her voice gentle, her face awash with misery.

"No," Margo echoes, her gaze turning to Quentin, her dark eyes lighting up with some sort of bright new knowledge. "No, we haven't. True Love's Kiss. There's one more thing to try."

Quentin frowns at her, uncomprehending in the face of her intense gaze. And then he realizes what she means. He frowns at Margo. "You can't be serious."

"I can't be?" Margo raises an eyebrow and stares at him. "Eliot hasn't shut up about you for a second. A single second. It's all been Quentin this, and Quentin that—”

She's implying—Quentin doesn't want to think about what she's implying. But he doesn't have time _not_ to.

She thinks...Quentin is Eliot's True Love? Seriously? Quentin staggers to his feet and stares at her, uncertainly.

"There's no way," Quentin whispers. "It's not possible. It couldn't be me."

Margo continues to stare at him, entreating him with her earnest, desperate expression.

"I've known him two days," Quentin hisses.

"Kiss him, Quentin," Alice says, looking across at him, still with her arms stretched up, the red hexagon spinning even faster; the spell looks like it's costing all of them dearly to hold it, sweat standing out on each of their foreheads. "It's why I broke up with you half an hour ago, you’re clearly really into each other." Her voice softens. "It's okay."

Quentin stumbles forward, and Margo pats him on the back as he passes. Quentin barely feels it as he kneels by Eliot's side, and he raises his hand to Eliot's cheek, resting his knuckles briefly against the skin there. Eliot's cold. So cold. Love? After two days? Could he really be in love with Eliot, so quickly? The last two days run through his mind in a barrage of memories. Making Eliot laugh. Eliot's smile. Eliot's eyes. Eliot, Eliot, _Eliot._

It's more than possible—it’s true. Quentin is in love with him. He's stunned. How did he not realize sooner?

He carefully raises Eliot closer to him, a hand under his neck.

"Please," Quentin murmurs, his voice cracking. Even so close to death, Eliot is so beautiful. "Please, don't leave me."

Quentin leans in, and does what he can finally admit he's been wanting to do since almost the moment they met: he kisses him. Eliot’s lips are soft, but oh, cold. Too cold.

For the moment it's happening, Quentin lets himself hope it will work, but that hope only lasts for a second. He's dimly aware of the magicians around him having to let the spell go, someone saying they can't hold it a moment longer, but if he does hear who says that, it doesn't register. All of his attention is focused on Eliot. Eliot, who still hasn't moved.

Dammit, why did Quentin let himself believe? He feels so stupid. He'd been wrong to hope it would be work. He's always known True Love is a stupid concept. Why had he abandoned the ideology that would have kept him safe, that would have stopped him feeling _so_ wretched right now? He should—

And then Eliot gasps, his eyes snapping open. They're unfocused for a second, and then they find Quentin's, and Eliot smiles, wonder lighting him up as color gently floods his body.

Which means…. True Love exists. Which means… Eliot loves him back? Quentin stares at him disbelievingly, humongous waves of relief and happiness crashing through him. He's in _love,_ and Eliot's alive because of it, and Quentin saved him with a kiss? It's definitely going down in Quentin's estimation as his best kiss ever. Even if Eliot _doesn't_ love him back—however True Love works, or whatever it actually means—Quentin will always have that.

Quentin doesn't have long to worry that maybe his feelings are one-sided.

"I knew it was you," Eliot breathes, and kisses Quentin.

It turns out that Quentin's body has rallied to match his dire internal stress, and awareness of his own physicality is sinking back into his consciousness. He is growing more aware by the second that he's a crying, emotional, gross mess. There are salty tears in this kiss, and Eliot's lips are still frighteningly cold.

And it's still somehow the second best kiss of Quentin Coldwater's life.


	11. Eliot

The thing about being poisoned is that even when one is magically healed from it—even by True Love’s Kiss—it isn't a pain-free cure. Eliot's head is pounding and his entire body feels like the dragon had personally stomped on him a few hundred times. Everything he tries to move hurts.

Which still doesn't stop him from staring at Quentin and smiling so widely that his face hurts more than it needs to.

Quentin Coldwater. True Love is real and Eliot Waugh has one and it's _Quentin Coldwater._ Eliot's never going to have a self-esteem problem again in his life, because the universe is messed up, but it thinks he belongs with this man. If Eliot wasn't already laid out from that brat Fomar's murder attempt, he'd probably need to lie down just for that.

Quentin's still holding his hand, collapsed in a heap by the side of the sofa, and he looks exhausted. Which Eliot guesses is reasonable, considering the last few hours.

It's probably rude for Eliot to keep staring at him.

"Hi," Eliot manages to croak, even though his voice somehow makes the single syllable crack into several pieces.

Quentin's eyes crease with his smile. "Hi," he says back, simply. He looks as dazed as Eliot feels.

"True Love, hm?" Eliot hums.

"Apparently," Quentin says, and his fingers involuntarily tighten around Eliot's. Even that small amount of physical touch is almost impossibly pleasurable. It's definitely warring against the pain, temping down his aches. It's _so_ good. Eliot regrets that he only has the vaguest sense memories of their first kiss, the one that saved him, but the second one—oh. It hadn't just been a kiss. It had felt like finally, Eliot had found his _home._

All this time, he'd thought it would be a place. Not a person.

Eliot drifts forward, because he wants that feeling again, and then he realizes, and it feels like he's swallowed a large rock. "Alice," he says, simply. Miserably. Oh god. As much as Eliot _has_ fucked with people's boyfriends in the past, more times than he's willing to admit, he thought he'd put that impulse in his past, with the drugs.

"She broke up with me right before Fomar crashed the party," Quentin says.

Eliot's eyes well up almost immediately in a storm of feelings: relief that Quentin and Alice were broken up; shame, because he feels like he took Quentin from Alice; pity that Quentin had to go through another rejection; fear at the realization that he'd been so close to death. So close, and thankfully still so far.

"I'm so sorry, Q," Eliot says, softly. "After I pushed you into opening up and letting her in."

"I'm okay with it. She was right. We made sense when we both thought there wasn't anything better we could hope for. But she saw it before I did," Quentin says.

"Saw what?"

"That I was falling in love with you," Quentin whispers _._ "I didn't realize what she was saying at the time, but she saw I had the potential for more than what we had been planning together." Quentin lowers his mouth and presses a light, grateful kiss against Eliot's knuckles. "And she let me go."

Eliot stares at Quentin for a moment more, and then he glances around—Alice is still there, apparently helping with the clean-up, and Margo's leaning in close, smiling at her, full force. Oh. _Oh._ He knows what Margo looks like on the romantic offensive and that coquettish smile is her at her most seductive. Margo _really_ likes Alice. Eliot shouldn't be surprised—he's not the only one with a thing for high-strung nerds.

"I don't think it's only _you_ that has potential for more," Eliot murmurs, and Quentin looks confused until he follows Eliot's gaze and sees Alice blush and giggle at something Margo is saying.

"Oh," Quentin says, blinking a lot. "Huh. Yeah, all right. That makes me feel better."

"Good," Eliot says, and now that he knows Quentin's not attached, he gives in to the urge that has been thrumming under his skin for the past two days—he leans in and kisses Quentin's inviting pink mouth. Eliot slides a hand around Quentin's neck, and Quentin immediately goes pliant against him. It's everything Eliot loves about Quentin Coldwater: eager, and earnest, and warm.

Eliot prods at that thought experimentally as he pulls back from the kiss, Quentin's eyes half-lidded and a hazy smile playing on those perfect lips. Love. Quentin. Instead of being purely terrifying, it’s almost entirely pleasant, with only the faintest exclamation mark of alarm hovering in the back of his mind.

"I have to go get Teddy back," Quentin says. Eliot's eyes dart around the room before he remembers that he saw Penny and Teddy blip out at the start of the trouble.

"Then go," Eliot says.

Quentin pulls a face. "But that means letting go of you and I'm kinda having trouble with that right now."

Eliot raises his eyebrows. "You want to tell your son you left him—wherever you planned to magically stash him in the event of emergency—because you were too busy holding my hand?"

"It's a nice hand, I might be able to sell him on it," Quentin says, but he does let go, pushing himself to his feet in one smooth move. "You gonna be okay?"

"I managed without you for well over thirty years," Eliot says, all bravado, and then he grimaces. "Maybe hurry back though?"

Quentin smiles at him and reluctantly steps back. Eliot watches him walk across the room to Penny, flicking his gaze down to Quentin's ass with freedom to do so, without guilt.

Except Margo chooses that moment to detach herself from Alice to come see how he is, so she catches him in the act.

"Nice," Margo says, sitting next to him, shoving him further back into the couch with her ass. "I can see why you like him."

Eliot tries to temper his smile, but he's pretty sure he's still grinning like a complete idiot. "Yeah, I can see why you like _her."_

Margo makes a song and dance of looking dismissive, but she is blushing, and Eliot loves her too much to embarrass her by calling it out.

"I'm gonna say it," Margo says.

Eliot narrows his eyes. "Say _what_?"

"A girl's gotta get in every good _I told you so_ she can." Margo smiles widely. "True Love's Kiss, huh?"

"I guess so," Eliot says, and automatically finds his eyes straying to Quentin again. Penny blips out and Eliot resists the urge to hold his breath. He wonders where Teddy was taken to be safe.

"I'm really proud of you," Margo says, and she lifts up her hand, stroking his hair softly. "I don't think you've ever listened to me so thoroughly in our lives."

"I listen to you all the time," Eliot protests.

"For the easy shit." Margo shrugs. She's taken off her leather jacket at some point in proceedings, and so Eliot pushes himself up onto his elbows so he can press a kiss to her bare shoulder. She smiles at him as he lies back down. "You saw potential and you opened yourself up to it. And hit a jackpot on your first attempt, you lucky bastard."

"Oh, I don't know," Eliot nods over to where Alice is doing a really complex spell with bored ease, like it's child's play for her. "You might be onto something too."

Margo grins. "To high-strung nerds, baby. We've always known they were an _excellently_ untapped dating resource."

"Amen to that," Eliot says.

Penny finally re-appears, and Eliot feels himself relax at the sight of Teddy in tow. Teddy's face lights up on seeing Quentin and he throws himself into his dad's arms.

Teddy gawps around the destruction, trying to figure out what happened. "Did the dragon leave?"

"Yeah," Quentin says. "Um. Promise me you'll never try and summon one yourself? I know it's interesting that they live in the city, but—"

"I think I'm off dragons for the moment," Teddy says. He darts a look in Eliot's direction. "Especially if one hurt Eliot."

"Oh," Quentin says, "well that was—" His eyes dart to where Fomar is tied up, and then to where Eliot is still dramatically splayed out on the couch. He looks back at Teddy with an energetic nod. "Yeah. Dragons are _super_ dangerous."

Teddy nods, and then looks scared again. "You're hurt."

Quentin tilts his head, confused.

"Q, he's right," Julia says, coming around him to press a kiss into Teddy's hair. "Get your shirt off again so we can see how bad it is."

Eliot stirs at that, but Margo presses him down gently, to keep him lying down.

"I don't think it's bad, or he'd have fainted by now," Margo says, soothingly.

Quentin frowns and starts unbuttoning his shirt again. Eliot stares, but it's not even for perverted leering, just genuine concern. Wow. True Love is kind of a head-fuck.

True to Margo's words, when Quentin takes his shirt off again and turns around for Julia to check, it doesn't look like much. A few scratches that Eliot wants to kiss better.

"I'll get the first aid kit," Julia says, looking over to where Lipson is busy making the most of the bar, which managed to survive the battle. Eliot doesn't blame Julia for her decision—he doesn't think a drunk Lipson would be the easiest person to deal with.

"Whoa, Dad, I didn't know you had a tattoo," Teddy says, blinking at Quentin's exposed—now empty—cacodemon trap. "That looks so _badass_."

"Oh," Quentin says, turning around to face the room again while Julia carefully does something to his back with an antiseptic wipe. " _Ow_."

"I can skip this and you can get these scratches infected and you can die," Julia says.

Quentin looks murderous. "Fine," he mutters, then looks at Teddy again. "Um. It wasn't a tattoo so much as...protection. We all got one from school when we graduated."

"From magic school," Teddy says, like he's testing the words out. His eyes light up suddenly. "I can do magic. Does that mean _I_ get to go to magic school? And I'll get one of those tattoos too?"

Quentin stares at Teddy, like the thought has only just occurred to him. To be fair, he's only had a few hours to embrace the knowledge that his son definitely has magic. "I think," Quentin says slowly, "that we need to get you in French lessons, as soon as possible."

"French?" Teddy pulls a face.

Quentin glances over at Eliot briefly before looking back at his son. "There's a school called _Château de Peyrelade_ in France. And I think that might be a good fit for you."

Julia looks confused. Quentin mouths _I'll tell you later_ at her. Eliot smiles. Brakebills has _issues,_ that’s for sure. He's glad that if nothing else, he'll have dissuaded Quentin from sending his son to the school where they thought unchecked animal transformations were a good idea. Quentin had mentioned Julia’s frustrations about the lack of oversight in American magical education; she's probably going to love learning about how the European schools operate.

Teddy looks impressed. "You'd let me go to _Europe_ for magic school?" Teddy flings himself forwards, enveloping his dad in the biggest bear hug his little arms will allow. "You're the best, dad."

Quentin winces as Teddy's hug too-exuberantly exacerbates some of the minor scrapes and bruises he's sporting.

"And it's not like we can't send Uncle Penny to get you _wherever_ you decide to go," Julia says.

"Except I'm not a taxi," Penny says, rolling his eyes. Julia elbows him. "But I guess I can squeeze in a few replacement flights for my favorite nephew."

"I'm your _only_ nephew," Teddy says, his eyes narrowing. "Doesn't that mean I'm your least-favorite nephew too?"

"I promise to always like you better than I like your dad," Penny shrugs.

"That's not a high bar," Quentin grouches.

"I'm a bit uncomfortable that Fomar's still here," Margo says, looking over to where the teenager is wriggling in his bounds. "I'll be right back, gonna try something." She rubs her thumb briefly over Eliot's cheek. "You lie here and keep looking pretty, 'k?"

Eliot stares at her. "Like I ever do anything else."

Margo gives him a weird look at that, but Eliot's injuries are exhausting him. He can't interpret what the expression means. But then she nods, like she's decided something, and gets up, crossing the floor over to their shopping bags. Eliot watches her, and then realizes what's happening when Margo reaches into one of the shopping bags and pulls out a thick wad of notes, the last of their money from their frantic shopping spree. It had almost made Eliot miss being on Earth with her; the two of them had shopped the _heck_ out of multiple Parisian boutiques during their years at Peyrelade.

"Hey, Adiyodi," Margo calls.

"Yeah?" Penny grunts.

Margo heads over to him and waves the wad of money. "You might not be a taxi, but you wanna earn a pile of cash?"

Penny looks at the money thoughtfully. "I could probably be convinced."

"Feel like dropping Fen and Fomar back at the castle?" Margo says, arching an eyebrow. "I can't leave until I'm sure Eliot can stand. I'm not dragging his ass through the Neitherlands, my boy has to be self-sufficient."

Eliot squints at Margo. He's dragged her _more_ than enough places over the years, when her heels have been overly ambitious and she can't walk any longer on them. Except, he does have telekinesis, and that makes lifting Margo when he needs to incredibly easy.

"Yeah, I can do that," Penny says, taking the wad of cash with a smile.

Julia immediately plucks it from his hands. "Looks like we can afford to replace our furniture right away," she beams. Penny sighs. " _And_ have enough left over for that pinball machine you keep bookmarking on that auction site."

Penny beams and kisses her on the cheek. "You're the best."

"I know," Julia grins.

"Yo, Stabby, get your ferret and the little brat," Penny yells, startling Fen into dropping her broom with a clatter. "Time to go."

"Tell Tick I'll be back as soon as King Eliot is recovered," Margo adds. She squints. "And see how many of those shopping bags you can carry." She grins at Penny. "It's a very expensive trip, I'm gonna maximize my allotted luggage space."

"And can I get a lift home after that?" Lipson calls over, from where she's still half-slouched over the bar. "Seeing as you ruined my night and all, you owe me."

"You can come with, I'll drop you off second," Penny says, and squints at her. "Unless you want to skip out on briefly seeing a magical kingdom?"

Lipson picks up her medical bag, looping it over her arms. "Well, I guess it _has_ been years since I dropped any acid. Why not."

Eliot tries to imagine any of his severe professors at the Château dropping acid, and fails. Brakebills needs a better vetting process for its teaching staff.

"Yo," a voice says, startling Eliot. He turns to see Kady approaching.

"Don't mind me," Kady says, and swings herself over the back of the couch so she's perching on the arm. "This is the only piece of furniture that survived the dragon, you're gonna have to deal with sharing it."

"I think I can manage," Eliot says, because Kady might be sprawling out over the arm, legs spread wide, but she's also carefully avoiding touching him. Which—considering he still feels like death warmed over, ground up, and reheated in the microwave—he appreciates.

"So. Coldwater's your True Love, huh?" Kady raises her eyebrows at him and Eliot fights to hold her gaze. "You got _any_ idea what you're gonna do with that?"

Eliot stares back. "I guess I'd better figure it out fast."

"You've got more options than you think," Kady says. She looks out over the mess of the room. There's a bottle of water in her hands but she doesn't open it. She squeezes the bottle like an anchor. Eliot can understand the need to have something to do with your hands, especially during a serious conversation. "See, I never thought I would end up in a place like this."

"To be fair, I don't think _anyone_ except a very special type of person plans to have a dragon smash up their home," Eliot says.

Kady laughs. "My mom was a hedge witch," she says. "I never really had much of a home growing up. She got into some bad shit, but she was still my mom, y'know? Anyway. Julia and Penny, they got me to see that I didn't deserve the shit life dealt me. When someone as good as them loves someone as messed up as I am, it means something. Like maybe I'm not the fuck-up life tried to tell me I was."

Eliot's throat is dry. He swallows awkwardly, the motion burning him; Kady passes him over the bottle of water. "Thanks," he says.

Kady rests her hands on her knees instead, her fingers curling into her jeans. Her gaze lingers on where Julia's using some flashy magic to clean up the broken glass all over the floor.

"They helped me get my mom out of some pretty bad shit," Kady says. "And they helped pull _me_ out of some pretty bad shit too. They inspire me every day to be better, to _do_ better. As part of that, and trying to save my mom, I ended up liberating a bunch of hedges from the fucker that had been abusing them for years. They had no idea what it was like to be treated decently. They wanted me to move to the West Coast, to take up the hedge leadership there. The East Coast leadership faltered soon after, combining both groups together. I'd be the head of all American hedges by now if I'd followed that path."

"Then why didn't you?" Eliot asks.

Kady hums. "Well, I had a job offer here." Her gaze lights up—Penny's back—and she smiles as Julia crosses the floor and throws herself into Penny's arms. "And some things are worth giving up a throne." She pats him on the leg and hops off the couch. "Good talk."

Eliot frowns after her. "You're not subtle," he says, scowling.

Kady throws a look back and arches an eyebrow. "Good. I fucking hate subtle. Give me a sledgehammer any day."

Eliot rolls his eyes and clutches the water she gave him, taking a long swallow of it as he thinks. It's clear what she's saying. She gave him a genuine job offer. And Quentin is definitely worth giving up a throne...

But a world where he doesn't see Margo every day feels just as wrong. Margo gave up everything for him, again and again. She gave up Brakebills, and she gave up living on Earth, for him. Because it was what Eliot needed.

Eliot feels cold.

"Hey, phone," Josh yelps, from where he's been trying to rescue plates and glasses from their smashed-up dinner—it looks like he's laying them in pieces on the floor, putting the bits back together like jigsaws. That makes sense, Eliot supposes, when one of their party is a minor mender. Josh lopes over to the side-table that holds their loudly-trilling landline phone, and picks it up. "Fillory and Further, books, repairs and more, the Hoberman speaking, where can I direct your call today?"

Josh's voice is so enthusiastic, Eliot feels exhausted just hearing it.

"Q-ball, it's for you," Josh says. "Some Nigel fellow about a clock."

Eliot pushes himself into a sitting position.

Margo comes away from where she's been flirting with Alice (again), and rests her hand against Eliot's forehead, like she's checking his temperature. She notices Eliot's focus on Quentin as he heads for the phone.

"Wait, the clock?" Margo says, her dark eyes lighting up. "It's not—"

"The clock we both came through," Eliot says. "Yeah. I think so. Nigel's the guy that got you arrested."

Margo wrinkles her nose and sits down next to Eliot again, this time wrapping her small hand around his waist. "Ugh, I know. If _I_ had some gorgeous babes from another planet arrive in my sitting room, I'd have offered them drinks."

"Absolutely!" Quentin says into the phone. "Yeah. I can bring cash. I mean, the morning's fine, but if you'd rather get it out of the way tonight, I live nearby, I can bring our shop's van around in ten minutes. Yeah. Yeah, of course. Cash. Yep. I'll see you then." Quentin puts the phone down and looks over at Josh. "Yo, Hoberman, we need the Hobervan, come on."

"I'm not on shift, y'know, you can't just order me around," Josh says, but he’s already ambling over to where Quentin's bouncing on his feet.

"Q, what was the phone call?" Julia asks. Her arm is around Teddy and the two of them wander closer.

Quentin looks at her, his face bright. "That was Nigel. The uh, Fillory fanboy who has the clock with the portal in it. He says he's tired of people breaking into his house just to jump out of it, and he got sucker punched by a girl because of it, so he wants it sold."

"That was me," Margo says, elbowing Eliot gently.

"That's my girl," Eliot says.

Julia looks delighted. "How much cash?" She pulls out the wad of cash she took from Penny that's still in her pocket.

"$5000, he wants a fast sale," Quentin says, his smile of incredulity revealing that he would have spent a hell of a lot more. Eliot is charmed by his exuberance. What a fanboy.

"Relax, baby," Julia says, when Penny coughs pointedly at whose cash it is that she's peeling from. "Quentin's good for it."

"He better be," Penny sighs. "Because if I miss out on the Theatre of Magic pinball machine you've told me twice we couldn't afford yet because Coldwater's run off with all of the cash—"

"We already bought it for you three weeks ago, you big baby," Kady says, coming up from behind Penny and wrapping her arms around him. "We've been hiding it in the spare apartment. _That's_ why we kept saying no."

"Oh," Penny says, blinking several times.

"I already found it a couple of weeks ago," Teddy says. "Good luck beating my high scores."

"I snuck down yesterday and wiped you off the board, sucker," Julia says, winking at Teddy.

"Hm. You mean the scores _I_ obliterated this morning?" Kady hums.

"The three of you are terrible people," Penny says. "I don't know why I like you."

"Because we're cute," Teddy says.

"What are you hanging around for?" Julia says, and bats at Quentin. "Go!"

Quentin nods. "Josh, c'mon, this is a two-hander. Unless you don't want a break from sweeping?"

"I'm coming," Josh says, swiping his coat from the rack and hurrying off ahead of Quentin.

"I'll spoil Teddy rotten while you're gone," Julia says, wrapping her arms around him.

"We'll be quick," Quentin says, drags Teddy over to kiss him on the forehead, shoots Eliot an excited look, and then dashes off with Josh, whooping loudly.

"That one is gonna be noisy in bed," Margo remarks, giving Eliot a knowing look.

Eliot laughs, but not because of Margo's usual sense of humor, more because seeing Quentin so delighted makes him feel like laughing.

And then he realizes what Quentin's figured out, _so_ much quicker than Eliot has. Quentin's going to get the clock. The clock with the portal in. The clock with the portal to _Fillory._ Could it be possible?

Eliot looks at Margo, almost too excited to hold the idea in his head, but he's also scared if he says it out loud then it can't come true. Could he be this lucky?

"That portal," Eliot says, unsteadily. "You worked on it for a while to re-open it. How steady is it?"

" _That_ sucker is a permanent fucker," Margo rolls her eyes. "That's why it took so long. A temporary one can't be blocked so thoroughly, it's probably been in that tree the entire time."

Eliot grabs for Margo's hand, overwhelmed, and looks her in the eyes. This is serious Eliot time. Margo frowns at him, and then she realizes what he's figured out.

"You want to stay," Margo says, simply. She takes a deep breath, and then she smiles for his sake and Eliot doesn't point out that it's trembling at the edges. "Oh, Eliot."

"I can still help you when you need it," Eliot says. His voice is shaking. "And it's a two-way portal. You can come here too."

"What would you even _do_ here?" Margo asks. "Besides the cute nerd panting after you, that is."

"Well," Eliot says, and rips the band-aid off the discussion he's been putting off for years—for their entire reign, even. "What do I do in Fillory?"

Margo frowns. "Plenty," she says. "Tick's schedule for you is always as full as mine."

"The difference is that yours is full of useful things. You make decisions. They need you. But they don't let me do anything. Not on my own. I mostly stand around in the corner for eight hours a day, looking regal and nodding my head. And it's been wearing me down more than I thought, to be so useless. I got to be helpful here, Bambi. I actually solved a problem for Kady, and I sold some books downstairs, and..." Eliot's vision blurs. "I felt _useful_. In a way I haven't in...longer than I can remember."

Margo looks… devastated actually. "I—you never—" She shudders a breath and then almost looks _angry_. "If you were so miserable, Eliot, then why didn't you ever say anything?"

Eliot twists to face her full-on and takes her face in his hands. "You saved my life, Bambi. You're the other half of me. I don't know who I am without you in my life every day. And when there wasn't the potential for anything more, you were enough of a reason to wake up every day. I will _always_ need you. But—I need to be useful too. And with the portal here… it'll be like I'm sleeping in a room next door."

"Yeah, but I might not get supper every day," Margo says, tugging his hands down from her face, but wrapping both of hers around him, gripping tight.

Eliot shrugs. "Steal Josh. Their argument was they needed him for part-time cover. But if _I'm_ here…"

Margo lifts a skeptical eyebrow. "You'd work...what is it they do here?"

"They have a bookstore," Eliot says. "And I'm not entirely sure what Kady and Penny do, actually, but there was a possible bank heist on the schedule. I'm sure we can liaise and figure out what you actually _do_ need me for in Fillory."

"I need at least an hour of Eliot time for myself every day," Margo says, tilting her chin up and glaring at him. "Non-negotiable. And at least one night a week for supper and sleepovers."

"Deal," Eliot says, promptly.

"I should have noticed how unhappy you were," Margo says.

"I wasn't unhappy."

"You weren't _happy._ "

"...maybe not."

"But you could be, here."

"Yeah," Eliot nods. "Yeah, I think I can be."

"And if it doesn't work you can always come crawling back to me," Margo grins, winking at him.

Eliot muffles a laugh. "It won't be any different, really."

"It will," Margo says, wrinkling her nose. "But—" She nods to herself firmly, like she's convincing herself of something. "Different doesn't have to be bad."

Eliot squeezes her hand in his. "I'm terrified too," he admits.

Margo looks at Eliot for a long moment, and then she squints at him. "You know what, I might go and see if I can convince Alice to accelerate her research visit to Fillory."

"Yeah?" Eliot grins. "She's single because of me, y'know."

"Ah, my beautiful homewrecker," Margo croons, and kisses him on the mouth, smiling at him as she pulls away. "I'm gonna have a new tool in my flirting arsenal."

"Oh?"

"Well. You've basically admitted you'd be willing to abdicate your throne," Margo waggles her eyebrows. "Maybe she'd be interested in the vacancy." She looks over her shoulder. "I think she'd look hot in a crown. Ooh. Maybe _just_ a crown."

Eliot contemplates Quentin in the same and…. yeah, Margo is a genius.

Quentin and Josh bring the clock back, and the whole crew troop downstairs to help install it in Quentin's apartment. They cheat and use magic to levitate it up the stairs. Even with the assist, the exertion still has Quentin's cheeks flushed pink. Alice helps Julia install it by the wall, and the two of them run some diagnostics on it to check it's still working. It is.

"The guy was glad to be rid of it," Quentin says, shaking his head. "Said he was going to put the money in his vacation fund."

"Is he going somewhere fun?" Teddy asks.

"Cuba, I think he said." Quentin wrinkles his mouth. "Wouldn't be my first choice."

" _We'll_ take you somewhere fun," Julia says, kissing Teddy's hair. "If we can find a good time to close the shop up for a week."

"Somewhere where there are giraffes?" Teddy asks.

Quentin frowns. "You gotta tell me what this new giraffe thing is about, Teddy-bear."

Eliot grimaces across at Kady. Oops.

#

After that, everything's a bit of a blur for Eliot. He's exhausted, but that's to be expected.

The clean-up of the penthouse is finished. Margo hurriedly conferences first with Josh—who speeds off towards the spare room, and then comes out a few minutes later with a bulging travel bag—and then with Alice. Alice hurries away from Margo to get her coat and purse, but then runs right back towards Margo and clutches her arm—so obviously Margo's been her usual level of awesome and managed to convince them both to come to Fillory _immediately._

As they all troop back down to Quentin's apartment, Julia makes sure Eliot lies down on Quentin's couch as Alice takes Quentin to one side for a few minutes, speaking in a low tone. Eliot is worried for a moment that she might have changed her mind, and that Quentin will have to hurt her, until Alice kisses him on the cheek and runs towards Margo, smiling at her.

Margo adjusts her shopping bags on her arms, smiles sadly at Eliot, and walks over to the clock. She murmurs something to Julia, who looks happy when she hears it, nodding in response. Eliot wishes he could overhear what Margo was saying, but maybe he doesn't want to know. Then Margo swings open the clock door, and light from the portal illuminates her beautiful face.

"After you," Margo says, and gestures at Josh.

"I guess I quit," Josh says, grinning. He gives Julia, Kady, and Penny a thumbs up, and steps through the clock while yelling, "Fillory, here I come!"

"I'll probably be back tomorrow to get more things," Alice says to Quentin. "I can come back through here, right?"

"Any time, I'll leave you a key to the building's back door on the counter so you can come and go whenever you want," Quentin promises, and squeezes Alice's shoulder briefly. "Have fun in Fillory."

Alice gifts Margo with a shy, small smile. "I think I will," she says, before following Josh through the portal.

Eliot slowly gets up from the couch, aware that Julia, Kady, Penny, Teddy, and Quentin are watching him, and he walks over to Margo. They don't say anything. They never really need to, not for moments like this. Margo leans up and kisses him on the cheek, then buries her arms around him in a hug, and then she disengages.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," she says, as pausing at the threshold of the portal.

"I'll see you tomorrow lunchtime," Eliot promises.

Margo smiles at him sadly. "Don't be late," she says. Eliot can see a hint of tears in her eyes, but she's trying to be strong, and it almost makes him lurch after her. But this is for the best. For both of them. Margo winks at him, then turns and throws herself through the portal.

Eliot takes a deep breath, and uses his telekinesis to close the door to the clock. When he looks at the others, Kady nods at him approvingly.

And Quentin stares at him, eyes wet. "You're not going?"

Eliot shrugs and approaches him, taking Quentin's hand in his own. He's only faintly aware of Kady and Penny hurrying out of the apartment, and Julia approaching Teddy.

"C'mon kiddo, how about I take you upstairs, we can scrounge up some supper. So your dad can have a few minutes with Eliot, huh?" Julia murmurs.

Teddy looks torn, but then he seems to realize what's going on, and he grins, following her out the door. "Yeah, okay."

Quentin has a look of awe and relief on his face. It's like this is what he wanted, but he hadn't been brave enough to say. "I thought you would go. But that's why I was so desperate to get the portal as soon as he said it was available. My other alternative was getting ready to be in a lifetime of debt to Penny. I...wanted you to be able to get back here. When you wanted. Y'know..." In a smaller, more unsure voice, "If you wanted."

"I want," Eliot says, simply. "Believe me. I want. Which is why I'm here. I'll be going back to Fillory in the morning—" he hates how Quentin's forehead wrinkles in dismay at that, but he forges on, "—but only to figure out my new schedule. Kady offered me a job and… I'd like to stay. If you'll have me."

" _If I'll have you_ , he says," Quentin says, dramatically, and then leans up on his tiptoes, wraps his hands around Eliot's neck and pulls him into a kiss. Apparently each kiss with Quentin Coldwater is going to feel like this. Eliot's brain shorts out at the touch of Quentin's tongue to his. This is gonna be _epic_. "Of course. Yes. _Please._ "

"I'll have to find somewhere to live, of course," Eliot says, grinning as he pulls back.

"Oh, I can think of somewhere," Quentin murmurs, and reels him back in for another kiss, pressing his answering smile against Eliot's own.


	12. Epilogue

Eliot hums to himself as he finishes re-arranging the store's selection of cook books.

Julia had them alphabetized, but Eliot's decided to sort them by cuisine instead, and he finds a nice easy baking book that he thinks might be good for Teddy's list. He makes a mental note to recommend it. Baking is something the two of them have started to do more often together, while Quentin watches them, laughs a lot, and frequently offers to be their official taster. Settling into a new home rhythm has led to a few awkward moments. But even the awkward times are the happiest Eliot's been for a long time.

When Eliot gets back to his feet, he sees Penny leaning over Julia as they chat together. With the portal easily accessible in Quentin's apartment, all of them have been in Fillory now, multiple times. Kady's been the least—she prefers Earth, and she was never a Fillory nerd like Quentin, Julia, or Margo—but Julia takes her work breaks in Fillory, and Eliot doesn't blame her. What's better to counter the muscle aches of shelving books or working for hours weaving complex spells together than a half-hour walk through opiate-drenched woods?

"Okay, I'm done," Eliot announces, heading over to them. "Anything else you need me to do before I head off?"

Julia smiles up at him. "No, we're good. We're gonna close the store up in an hour anyway." Alice had crunched some numbers for them and figured out a new schedule for the store, living them three afternoons a week off. Her analysis was a favor for Quentin letting her use his home as a thoroughfare while she moved the contents of her apartment to Fillory.

With Eliot also covering a couple of bookstore shifts in addition to his work with Kady and Penny, and the reduced store hours, things have been nicely relaxed. Quentin's admitted more than once that he wouldn't have been able to keep up the hectic pace they all lived at before. With the new regime, he doesn't even need Julia prompting him to take care of himself all the time anymore, although Eliot likes to credit it to all the amazing sex they're having. (Thank goodness for magic sound-proofing their room.) The honeymoon period, Julia calls it; if her own relationship is any example, Eliot and Quentin have a whole lot of happiness in front of them. God, he can't wait.

"Tell Q we won't forget to pick up his son," Julia calls.

"Tell Quentin you're gonna forget his son exists," Eliot grins at her. "Got it!"

Julia laughs as he runs for the back door, unable to hold in his excitement.

This is going to be such a great day. Eliot bounds up the stairs two at a time and skids into their apartment, throwing off his neon shirt and telekinetically ensuring it makes it to the laundry basket. He still gets a weird kick out of being domestic, even though Quentin won't let him do all the chores, insisting that he does half. So far it's been working for them. And of course, on the hardest days, it helps that they don't have to hide from Teddy, so they can cheat and use magic when Quentin barely has the energy to do anything other than look after his son.

Julia even came up with a spell to remove the blood from Eliot’s Fillorian tunic, and it's what Eliot changes into today, feeling nostalgic. He's thrumming with anticipation and nearly forgets to put his crown back on, having to double back and fish it out from where he keeps it—in the original misspelled tote that spelled Farther instead of Further that they nostalgically hung up by the door, a nice constant reminder of the chaotic way they met.

Quentin's up in the penthouse, chatting with Kady, but when Eliot comes through the door, Quentin breaks off midway through a sentence to stare at him instead. Kady looks angry until she sees what's stolen Quentin's attention; then she rolls her eyes.

"Time to go?" Quentin says, almost bouncing on his feet.

"God, guys, the wedding's not until next week," Kady sighs. "You're going to be insufferable during it, aren't you?"

"Oh, come on," Quentin says. "Margo and Alice are getting married! In Fillory! It's exciting!"

"For you, maybe," Kady says. She looks over at Eliot. "MacPherson wants to hire us again for another of those artifact whispers. Thoughts?"

Eliot frowns. "He seemed sketchy to me. I mean. I know we deal with sketchy. But even for us, he's _sketchy._ "

"I got that vibe too," Kady nods. "I'll redirect him to Augustine."

"We'll see you later," Quentin promises, and dashes away from Kady to peck Eliot's cheek. He grabs Eliot's hand. "C'mon, let's go."

"You're such a puppy sometimes," Eliot sighs, but happily lets Quentin drag him to the stairs.

* * *

It doesn't matter how many times Eliot brings Quentin to Fillory, Quentin always looks thrilled. Eliot can't believe it takes so little to make Quentin happy, but then, even a single glimpse of Quentin smiling is enough for him.

Eliot thought of himself as solely an ass man until Quentin. Now it doesn't seem like there's a single body part of Quentin's that _doesn't_ turn him on. Eliot had an unfortunately timed erection just the other day because he caught sight of Quentin's inner elbow and felt faint, all the blood in his body rushing to his groin in one fell swoop.

There's a quicker way back to the castle, but Eliot takes Quentin along their favorite route. It takes them past the hot spa, and puts them on the Brighthaven road, which gives them the best view of Castle Whitespire as they approach.

Eliot has managed to coax Quentin into the hot spa a couple of times (using magic to ensure their privacy; there's something delightful about sex in public when no one can actually see them); but today they don't have time for it on their schedule. Margo probably already thinks they're late.

Besides, as they approach it this time, Eliot realizes it wouldn't have been possible even if there _had_ been time. Because it's occupied.

With those blasted Spear-Bearers, cuddling their damn spears to them. While they're naked in the water.

Eliot dawdles to a halt and puts his hands on his hips, staring at them in consternation. He knew Queen Agate had been sent an invitation to the big wedding, but he hadn't realized she would send her diplomatic delegation ahead a week early.

"Why," Eliot sighs. "Why do they take the spears _into the water?_ " He's never going to understand.

Quentin looks at Eliot speculatively. "You know what, I'm gonna score one for future Fillanthropologists and ask them." He grins and presses another kiss against Eliot's cheek before passing his bag to Eliot to look after, hopping down off the road and jogging closer to the spa.

Eliot has to put Quentin's bag on the ground. It's heavy. Eliot quietly bets to himself that it's half-full of books. He stares as Quentin unabashedly goes to the edge of the water, crouching down and talking with them for a few minutes. Eliot can't make out the murmuring, but he does recognize Quentin's laugh when he hears it. Whatever the Spear-Bearers are saying, Quentin thinks it's hilarious—he's still smiling as he jogs back to Eliot. Gods, Eliot loves Quentin's smile, and how it's always too big to properly fit on his face, forcing Quentin to scrunch up his eyes to fit it all in.

"So?" Eliot says, impatiently.

Quentin takes Eliot's hand and looks up at him. "So, they're not allowed snacks while they're working."

Eliot squints. "So the spears are to hunt with?"

"No, they're hollow." Quentin grins. "Their rooms get searched at night by their squad leader. So they have to keep any snacks they want _with_ them. And because their uniform is so skimpy..."

"They hide snacks... _inside the spear?_ " Eliot glances over at the Spear-Bearers clutching their spears protectively. One of them _does_ look like he's chewing something surreptitiously. Huh.

"Uhuh," Quentin says, drawing Eliot's attention back to him. "It renders the whole weapon practically useless, apparently. But it's the only thing they own that the squad leaders aren't allowed to search when it's in their direct possession."

"Huh," Eliot says, eloquently. Well. Mystery solved, he supposes.

"It's still kind of weird," Quentin says. " _And_ sorta creepy, having what _looks_ like so many unsheathed blades around. And we won't know, some could be real ones? Hidden among the faux snack-spears? I'm not sure how happy I am about so many of them being in a room with my kid next week."

"Relax. If one of them even _looks_ funny at Teddy, I don't know who'll eviscerate them faster—me or Julia," Eliot says.

Quentin narrows his eyes. "It's my kid. Why aren't I—y'know, I finished that sentence in my head, of _course_ you and Julia can cast more quickly than I can."

"Oh, the eviscerating will be a group activity, I promise. I wonder whose blast would hit first."

Quentin thinks about it as he lets Eliot's hand go and moves to pick his bag up again; he scowls but relents when Eliot shoulders it instead. "Three on Julia," Quentin decides.

Eliot's mouth falls open. "Your lack of faith in me is _wounding._ "

"Hm, let's see—you win and I get to kiss you, Julia wins and you have to kiss me. I'm honestly not seeing any losers in this scenario."

"I'm not entirely sure your logic is as solid as you think it is, but I'll let it go for now."

Quentin laughs. "Your graciousness is, as always, admirable, and might get you a little attention later."

Eliot smirks. "I do like attention." Boy does he ever, especially when Quentin is the one giving it.

"We should probably get a move on," Quentin sighs.

Eliot leans in and kisses Quentin briefly because he can't help himself. He's still a King in Fillory _,_ after all _._ If anyone complains that he can't seem to keep his hands off Quentin in public, he can always get Margo to pass a new law, or throw the whiner in the dungeons for a few hours until they've learned their lesson. Perhaps Fomar would enjoy having a roommate.

"You're right," Eliot says.

Quentin grins shyly at him and surges up to kiss him more thoroughly, before pulling away with a sigh and tugging Eliot to join him on the path up to the castle.

Eliot's face is probably doing something stupid and unattractive, but he can't bring himself to focus on anything but Quentin's face as he takes in the sight of Castle Whitespire. Quentin's admiration and awe is tangible.

"I know I've seen it a hundred times now," Quentin breathes, clearly overcome by his emotions. "But I am never going to get over this sight."

"Yeah," Eliot says, his eyes fixed on Quentin’s face. "Yeah, I get what you mean."

* * *

Because of the wedding, the entire Castle seems to be in an uproar.

The Floating Island isn't the only place that has sent its delegation early. There are servants everywhere, carrying around ribbons and chairs and decorations and food. Eliot has to snag one of the passing maids.

He smiles at her. "Do you know where the High King is, Jaime?"

The maid blinks. "You know my name! I mean. Uh. Yes, your Majesty. She's down in the kitchens, I think, with the High Chef."

"Thank you," Eliot says, and beckons Quentin to follow.

"Good luck, your Majesty," Jaime calls after him, which does not bode well.

Eliot weaves through the crowd of people, still holding Quentin’s hand. He doesn't think Quentin's managed to get to the kitchens yet. Normally they get as far as Eliot's bedroom and then...very rarely much further. Which is why Eliot is dragging them to the kitchens _first._ Margo will eviscerate them both if she doesn't get to see them.

"Wait," Quentin says, as they hurry down a hallway, and he points at a woman flirting with one of the Lorian diplomats, "is that Lipson?"

"Mmhmm," Eliot nods. "Penny was supposed to be dropping her home, after the whole dragon thing, remember? Apparently she took one look at all the half-naked Spear-Bearers and decided to stay for a couple of days."

"I suppose Lipson _did_ used to tell us in class that she was a snack," Quentin says. "Guess your guests agree. I can't believe she's still here."

"Mmhmm." Eliot nods. "There's a gazing pool in the courtyard outside of Margo's royal bedroom. I charmed it so you can send messages to her. Like faxes. She keeps getting reams of abuse from Dean Fogg, furious that she stole his best student and now she's stolen his best nurse."

"Aww, Fogg thought of you as his best student?"

"I think he meant Margo had stolen herself, actually."

Quentin hums thoughtfully. "That tracks for Fogg," he decides. "And Margo is probably the only person who _could_ steal her."

"I like to think _I_ did, actually."

"I think that's what Margo _lets_ you believe."

Eliot glowers at Quentin but then sighs. "Yeah."

* * *

The kitchens in Fillory are beautifully cavernous. When they enter, Josh is sweating over a row of large stock pots filled with different color bubbling liquids, and Margo and Alice are standing over a long table, moving plates around.

Josh is obviously having a blast. And Fen finally has a new target for her affections, if the way she’s been making hundreds of excuses per day to go to the kitchen means anything. She’s in here now, pretending to be checking the security of the window frames, but mostly poking at them and staring at Josh appreciatively.

Eliot can see a little of the appeal, to be honest. There’s something cheering about the way Josh is happily dashing from pot to pot, adding handfuls of spices and clapping excitedly when his bakes come out of the large ovens the way he wants. Eliot thought _he_ liked cooking, but next to Josh, his talents in the kitchen look decidedly amateur.

Thankfully, Quentin and Teddy are both still ridiculously charmed by Eliot's skills. And Quentin's even learning how to cook some things. They still go out for pizza every week. Eliot thinks he's one guess away from figuring out all seven of the extra ingredients that go into Chef Joe's special apple martinis. The Fillorians don’t seem to mind the idea of a commuting King. When Eliot offered to stand down, Tick told them there were another two thrones in storage; a Tetrarchy was not unheard of in Fillorian history. Eliot has to admit, he occasionally has moments where he can clearly picture Quentin in a crown.

While Josh looks like he's having the time of his life, Margo and Alice both seem extremely stressed. In front of them are a hundred blue plates. They all look the same to Eliot.

"How can such a simple decision be so difficult," Alice sighs, rubbing her forehead. "We managed to figure out how to stop the ferret humping your ice sculptures. Choosing one design should be easy compared to that."

"If the patterns weren't so fucking stupid," Margo sighs, "then we wouldn't be struggling. Hm. What about this one?" She reaches for one of them, and then her mouth falls open. "And it's cracked. The one I actually like, and it's _cracked._ " She turns to Alice. "Babe, I think our entire wedding is doomed."

"Our entire wedding isn't ruined because one plate that we hadn't even formally chosen yet is cracked," Alice says.

"But it is!" Margo wails. "If this is the right plate, but we can't use it, then the reception's unbalanced, and how is that a good start for our life together?"

Alice looks a bit cross-eyed, and a _little_ bit like she's reconsidering her life choices.

"Did you have any idea Margo would be a bridezilla?" Quentin whispers.

Eliot grins. "I'd be disappointed with anything less." Then he raises his voice, "Hey, Hanson, I brought a repair guy, remember?"

"Oh, I always knew you only wanted me for one thing," Quentin says with a grin.

"Yep," Eliot says. "Your perfect ass." He squeezes it in illustration. "I'm gonna go put your bag in our room."

Quentin smiles as Eliot presses a kiss against his cheek and leaves him to it. Well, okay, _maybe_ Eliot pauses at the doorway to leer as Quentin does his mending thing. That might be something he does. He does back out as soon as it's done, though, whistling under his breath as he heads for his bedroom. Quentin's agreed to stay here for two nights this time—he wants to be sure it's safe for Teddy to come over for the actual wedding.

Eliot sighs happily to himself as he walks past the crowds of people hurrying around the castle. Margo and Alice being True Loves too was a nice surprise. Alice found a spell in Whitespire's archives to uncover if a couple were in True Love and Margo had promptly cast it. Eliot hadn't been shocked for a second when it revealed that, like he and Quentin, Margo and Alice were a perfect True Love match.

After that, it was a beautifully chaotic path to their wedding. Margo planned a fancy picnic as a surprise, and on the way to her chosen site, where Margo had an orchestra set up, and chilled champagne, and a soft blanket, Alice went down on one knee on the muddiest part of the route, and proposed to Margo. Ten minutes before Margo could propose to _her._ Apparently Alice couldn't wait a second longer. It's an insanely romantic story. Eliot smiles every time he thinks about it.

As he heads for his bedroom, someone bumps into him, hard enough that he stumbles back and drops Quentin's bag.

Eliot looks up at the person he's collided with. A pale woman, wearing a shiny yellow enamel ring on one of her fingers. One of the buttons on her plain black dress doesn't match the others.

"So sorry," Eliot says. He thought he knew the names of all the servants, but hers is escaping him. She must be a guest for the festivities. "I guess I was distracted."

The woman's wide, pretty mouth stretches into a smile. "Oh, darling, a happy ending will do that to you," she says. "I'm so pleased that you all got one this time around. It's so well deserved, don't you think?"

Eliot smiles back at her. She must mean the wedding. He bends to pick up Quentin's bag, but when he looks back up at her, to ask if she's looking forward to the celebrations, the hallway's empty. The woman has gone. Huh?

He blinks to himself. For a moment, a memory pushes at him. That British accent. That disarmingly pretty face. She seems hauntingly familiar.

"Hey, wait up," Quentin says, and Eliot's brain empties completely in favor of staring at his beautiful True Love. He hovers while Quentin bounds up the long hallway towards him, drinking in the sight. Those lively, knowing eyes. The way Quentin keeps his hair loose more often now, just because Eliot likes it better that way. And that beautiful, crinkled smile, which Eliot sometimes feels is all his.

"You finished already?" Eliot asks.

"Yep. Thought I'd better get out of there, escape the line of fire."

"Good thinking," Eliot says, drawing him in for a brief kiss. "Let's get you unpacked."

Quentin grins.

"Alice showed me her dress," Quentin says, as they push into Eliot's sumptuous Fillorian bedroom. He heads straight for the dresser, pulling open the drawer Eliot emptied for him months ago and shoving in a bundle of clothes from his bag. "I think the whole thing's gonna look like a fairy tale."

Eliot hums as he closes the door. "Right when Margo started her search for True Love, I was _sure_ it was baloney, and I'm glad to be wrong about that. But I _was_ right that she wouldn't find her True Love on Fillory. Do I get half points for that, do you think?"

"Our story's kind of like a fairy tale," Quentin sighs, as he starts to stack a pile of books on the nightstand. "True love's kiss, waking up a sleeping royal…”

"I was poisoned, not sleeping."

"So you're Snow White, then."

"Snow White is _disarmingly_ pale."

"You're pretty pale too."

"I'd rather you call me pretty."

"Well, _that_ too," Quentin allows.

"Well, _maybe_ I'll allow that we might be a fairy tale," Eliot sighs. "But only because of one thing."

"Oh?"

"Because of how they end."

"Happily ever after?"

Eliot pouts as he rounds the bed to stand near Quentin. "I was angling for ‘ _with a kiss.’_ "

Quentin grins up at him. "I think I can handle that."

Eliot leans in for a kiss that Quentin eagerly returns. If this is a fairy tale, Eliot finally understands the appeal.


End file.
